Let Us Live and Love
by B. M. Reed
Summary: Postwar, tragedy causes Hermione to abandon the Wizarding world and forge a Muggle life. And when Neville walks into her life after seven years, she struggles with her perceptions of the world she abandoned.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN: **This is a brand new story I've been thinking about for awhile. Hope you enjoy it. Reviews are appreciated, always. :)

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**Chapter One**

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**17 November 2005, early morning**

I am only vaguely aware of the sound of my heels clicking across the hallway in my apartment building.

It's very early, 6:15 in the morning to be precise, and I have about seven minutes before the bus arrives at the corner. This is my routine five days a week. It's reassuring.

The chill London air hits my face as I step outside. The sun is only just rising over the tops of the buildings. The onslaught of noise that hits my ears doesn't faze me anymore. There are people walking, talking on their mobile phones, drinking coffee, all with a specific destination in mind. Without a care. I glance around to make sure I don't recognize any of their faces. Then I move on, walking toward the bus stop.

The Muggle world is comforting. I have an easy life. I have a stable job. Nobody questions my blood status or expects me to have all the answers, here. The choice I made to leave the Wizarding world and everyone I knew was a difficult one, but necessary.

Yes, I am safer here.

I board the bus and pay my faire. I look for an empty seat and take the closest one, near the middle. Nobody seems to be paying me much attention. I take out my mobile and check my SMS. I am slightly surprised I have a one this early in the morning.

**Alice - I trust UR on the way to work. Can't wait 2 C U. Lunch? Our secret. xxxxGiles**

I groan inwardly at this. Giles really doesn't know when to quit. I turn him down at least once a week, and this time will be no different. It's not appropriate to be going on lunch dates with my boss, anyway.

My stop. I get out of the bus and walk into the building and ignore the busty girl behind the reception desk. She glowers at me. I want to laugh.

My desk is waiting for me as I left it yesterday. I'm sure I have at least twenty emails to go through and more than enough spreadsheets to lie out, but I can't start without a cup of coffee. It's a Muggle habit I couldn't help but pick up shortly after I switched over. Mostly wizards drank tea, but I needed something stronger than that.

The break room is too bright. I can't stop what happens immediately afterward. It is almost like I am there, again, staring at their dead faces –

My breathing accelerates, and I try to calm myself. _It's just a flashback. Calm down. _I feel my palms tingle and I instinctively almost grabbed my wand, before I remember it is hidden in my flat, collecting dust –

"Alice? You okay?"

I spin around and see Giles staring at me. I tuck a stray curl that had fallen from my braid and nod.

"Sorry. Guess I'm still half asleep," I reply. "Need my coffee."

Giles smiles and looks a little relieved. I probably look a fright, standing there staring into space like that. I walk over to the coffee machine and begin pouring myself a cup.

"So, did you get my message?" Giles asks me, leaning against the counter. I have to tell myself I can't roll my eyes at my boss, but it's a little hard.

"Giles, I've told you before, I want to respect our work relationship."

He puts on a pouty face, but I don't think it had the affect he was going for.

"Come on. Just one lunch. It doesn't have to be romantic. I just want to get to know you."

I don't trust that for a second. I decide to lie.

"I have a lunch date today already, anyway." I turn to walk back to my desk, but he grabs my arm, probably harder than he intended.

"You never mentioned a boyfriend before."

"Hey, Giles, that hurts." I shake my arm out of his grasp. "I don't have to tell you about my personal life. Please, stop asking me to lunch. It makes me uncomfortable." I leave him gaping after my retreat.

I sigh as I sit down. I take a sip of my coffee and grimace because I forgot to sweeten it in my haste to leave. The bitter taste stays on my tongue long afterward. I shake my head. Maybe after today Giles will leave me alone for awhile. If I still used magic, I would have a hex or two I would love to use on him…

I log into my computer and begin to work. I have a long day ahead of me.

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My lunch break finally arrives and I put my coat on hastily so I can leave before Giles can intercept me. He watches me as I leave the office, and I don't say anything. It's better that way.

Muggle men infuriate me. Maybe I'm just biased, but I have a hard time finding much to value in them. They think that their money or looks will get me in their bed…well…they are wrong. I didn't leave the Wizarding world to find love. I came to find peace. It's much safer for everyone for me to be here.

My favorite lunch spot was a locally owned Italian restaurant a few blocks away. The warm atmosphere always melted the chill I felt – from the weather or otherwise. The staff knows me because I am here at least once a week, and I have my own table where I eat in solitude. I usually have a novel to pass the time while I waited on my food, and this time is no different.

I am having trouble concentrating on the words, though. There is a voice in the back of my head that has been nagging me recently, asking how much longer I can really go on with this façade. Is this what my life is truly meant to be? Is this all I am? Sometimes, I really miss everybody. I miss magic. But I ran away from the Wizarding world – away from all of my friends when they desperately needed me most. We thought the war was over. We thought we were safe.

We were wrong.

I automatically turn my mind off as I taught myself to do when I start thinking these thoughts. Every time I relive what happens, it's not pretty. I can't afford to do it in public.

My food arrives – linguine de mare – and I dig in ravenously. The chef truly knows his stuff. I am almost sad when I finish my plate.

I pay my bill, and then I leave.

The blast of cold air that hits my face makes me flinch a little. I don't move from the doorway immediately. I check my mobile for the time to make sure I don't have to run to make it back to work on time.

It takes me a moment to register that there is a man standing before me. I am a little startled at this, because I didn't see him come up and I am usually very careful about peoples' whereabouts around me. I think I might recognize him – and then I become afraid. I do not want to recognize strangers in London. His brown hair is swept back, probably because of the wind. He has green-brown eyes and a crooked nose.

"Hermione?"

His voice is rough, Northern, and very familiar. I am staring into the face of Neville Longbottom.

I do not reply.

I turn and run away as fast as my feet would carry me.

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I don't know why I ran. But I couldn't stop once I started. My breath is coming out in short bursts, I am terrified out of my mind, and I see a bus stopping at the corner and I get on as fast as I possibly could.

I glance at the people on board, convincing myself Neville's face isn't on any of theirs. Paranoia. That's what I feel. I feel it every day, but now it is like a living being trying to eat me alive. I sit down, trying not to look too suspicious. I try to steady my breathing.

I stare out the window. The lines blur and are no longer real things anymore. The people, the buildings, the trash. I close my eyes. How did he find me?

I am hiding in plain sight, as they say, yes. But it's not like I didn't take measures to protect myself. Some of the last magic I ever cast was to forge myself a new name and proof of Muggle education so I could get into uni at 18. I was careful not to overdo it. I am, in every sense of the word, Alice Lupton. Hermione Granger does not exist in the Muggle world anymore. In the Wizarding world, well, it's not my concern what they do with their records. I have been Alice Lupton since I was 18 years old and I will _not_ let this little mishap change that.

I am absolutely certain Neville doesn't know where I live or about my new life. I am too careful. I pay attention to everything. Perhaps he was just taking a stroll through London and saw me. I shake my head in frustration. That sounds stupid even to me. But, if he were following me, why wouldn't he approach me somewhere more secluded? He would know where I live, where I work…

I shake my head again. I try to focus on the cars and people outside the bus. I find that I can't. I can't think too hard about this right now. I have zero contact with the Wizarding world, so even if I wanted to find out what was going on…I can't.

I check my mobile and realize I have a new SMS.

**Where R U? Tell UR date U have a staff meeting NOW. xGiles**

I curse out loud.

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I walk quickly into the board room, a half hour late to the meeting, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

It's never that easy.

Giles stops talking as soon as he sees me walk in. His eyes narrow and I know I'm in trouble.

"Oi, Alice. Why are you so late?"

I turn my head to toward him, hoping I have an apologetic expression on my face.

"I'm sorry, Giles. I ran into an old friend and I lost track of time. It won't happen again."

My face is coloring at being called out in front of the entire staff. I am angry, and I am having a very hard time keeping my anger in check. It's important for me to keep my anger in check. I tell myself this. I do not want to do raw magic.

Giles resumes the meeting, completely ignoring my input and refusing to ask my advice on some of the spreadsheets. I bite my tongue in effort to not yell out.

It doesn't matter anyway. Soon I will be leaving. I cannot stay now that Neville knows where I am. I would rather run and start somewhere new than face the realities of what I left behind.

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_Reviews are appreciated. Let me know how I'm doing. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN:** Thank you to **OfLoveAndChocolate**, **Katconan**, **Smithback**, **Vera Rozalsky**, and **Arpad Hrunta** for your reviews. It means so much to me you all enjoyed it or were at least interested.

I had to edit the last chapter to include the date. From now on all chapters will be dated.

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**Chapter Two**

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**17 November 2005, late evening**

My wand is calling to me and it's very hard to ignore it.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table, staring at the mirror on the wall next to me. My face is pale and my eyes look too big. I look down at my hands. I have bitten my nails down to the quick, a couple of them have bled and they look angry.

I'm frustrated with myself. I thought it was clever, hiding in London as a Muggle. For the first couple of years, I dyed my hair blonde and used Muggle hair products to tame it down. After awhile, I figured people would have given up.

I figured people would have forgotten.

The years have passed quicker than I realized. Honestly, I've forgotten what it was like to _be_ a witch. I know that I still am – sometimes when I feel an emotion too much for words…I can feel the magic, long suppressed and bubbling within, longing to escape. Luckily, I have been able to control it.

But what separates – or used to separate me – from an ordinary Muggle was the _culture_. To use my wand daily to achieve a goal. To know who the Minister of Magic was. To be involved in the politics.

To be a part of the world that I was no longer.

I stand up and walk into my bedroom. I go to my nightstand and open the drawer. My wand is there, laying innocently, nothing more than a piece of expensive wood at this point. I haven't used it in years. I pick it up and close my eyes. It is like saying hello to a dear friend. It's cold in my hand.

I take a deep breath and decide to do it.

"_Avis_."

A stream of bright orange erupts from the tip of my wand, illuminating the walls, and my room is suddenly full of the sound of soft chirping and flapping. I sit on the floor and watch in wonder at the birds I conjured. They aren't real, no, but the illusion is so great that they might as well be. It's wondrous to behold. The first magic I have done in –

Well, I guess seven years.

I am suddenly aware of a strange sound in my living room. I stand up, quickly, soldier-mode and terrified. I walk out of my bedroom, wand out, as if I had just done this yesterday. Old habits die hard.

I hear another noise. A creak, as if someone is walking slowly. I curse at myself for not being smarter with my defenses.

"Whoever you are, I'm armed," I call out. My voice is harsh and too loud in my ears.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

_That voice._

I rush into the living room and find myself staring at Neville for the second time today. I can't run this time. This is my _home_, and he has intruded. I realize that the birds have followed me, chirping peacefully above my head.

"_Oppungo_."

As if there was a change in the wind, all of the birds suddenly shoot straight at Neville at once. They run into his chest, bursting into dazzling poufs of orange; the sound is terrifying. If they hurt, I wouldn't know. He doesn't even try to dodge them. All he does is stare at me.

"Hermione."

Silence. I cannot find words to speak. Looking at his face is really too much right now. I turn my head abruptly. I look into the kitchen, at the mirror on the wall.

My face is still pale; my eyes are still far too big. I try to convince myself that this is not reality. Neville is not standing in my living room, and I am just having a dream. Seven years of hiding, for what? To have the boy I helped in Potions track me down and expose the worst part of me?

He spoke again, his voice rough, "Hermione, please. I'm not here to hurt you."

I can't – won't – look at him. I look down at my wand. My hand is wrapped around it too tightly; my knuckles are white. I lift it up and point it at the candle centerpiece on the kitchen table.

"_Incendio_."

Flames burst to life, and my candles lit without any more effort from me than a channel of thought. The simplicity of it is astounding.

I finally force myself to look at Neville again, who is watching me warily. He is eying my wand and I notice he is fingering his nervously.

"_Expelliarmus_."

His wand flies to me and I catch it. I expect him to do _something_, but his expression only changes minimally. I think he might look more worried, now, but it doesn't satisfy me at all.

"Sit down."

He doesn't move for a moment, but I have him cornered. He sits on the couch, hands on his knees. His eyes are frightening. They bore into me like they can see my soul.

I stand on the other side of the coffee table. I want to be intimidating – to scare him off. But I am also curious why he would take such pains to find me.

"What do you want?" I finally say.

He bites his lip. I think he might look more worried than he did before.

"I haven't been following you," he says. I furrow my brow.

"Then how do you know where I live?"

"I saw you a couple weeks ago. In that restaurant you were at today." Neville takes a deep breath. "I didn't think it was you at first. You were dressed like you were today, those high heels and a black dress. I couldn't believe my eyes. We gave up looking for you…a long time ago."

There is a sadness in his voice. It's as if he truly felt the weight of my disappearance. I shake my head quickly.

"Get to the point."

"Well…I decided to check back at that restaurant a few times a week. Just in case. And…when you came out today I knew it was you. You ran off but I went inside and asked about you and the waiter told me your name and where you worked. I told him I was an admirer but couldn't get the courage to talk to you." He blushes slightly, but only misses a beat before carrying on. "So I went to your firm and got your records there and got your address. With magic. I don't expect you to forgive me for breaking into your house and invading your privacy…but I think I have an idea why you left. It's much safer now than it was then. Harry misses you. Hogwarts is restored and fully operating again. The Ministry has regained a lot of credibility and lots of our old classmates work there."

His speech came out in quick succession. I almost let the rhythm of his words make me forget exactly what he was saying.

The outburst is inevitable. "Who do you think you are? You took the pains to track me down; you should have gotten the hint. I changed my name and disappeared because I _didn't want to be found_." The last words come out in a hiss. I am shaking, and I am trying very hard not to hurt Neville.

"Hermione, please. You have to understand. When – when I saw you that day, it was like seeing a ghost."

I look at him, straight in the eyes. "I _don't_ understand. I haven't the luxury of seeing anybody's ghosts."

He knows what I mean. He lowers his eyes, and looks at the floor.

"You can't convince me to go back."

Neville nods. It's a simple gesture, but I know it has more meaning.

"It's…it's just…after the war, I thought things would be okay." Neville's voice sounds weak; tight. Like he's about to cry.

My chest feels constricted.

"Don't you _dare_ cry," I snap. I remember I am holding his wand and set it down on the coffee table.

"I'm not going to," he replies indignantly. It's the first negative response I got out of him tonight. "I just missed you," he says quietly.

I fold my arms and huff. I know I'm being terrible, but I don't know how else to be. I disappeared and hid to avoid something like this happening. Having him here is too much. He is a walking piece of the world I can't be a part of.

Although having him here in front of me, I'm starting to wonder why I _can't_ rejoin. He's making me question the rationality of leaving in the first place.

I can't be mad at him anymore. He did exactly what _I_ would have done, had it been Harry.

"Are you hungry?" I ask suddenly. Neville cocks his head to one side, wary again. "I'm making myself dinner. If you want some, come help."

I walk into my small kitchen and open the refrigerator. I pull out the salmon I bought yesterday and begin to prepare it: basil, garlic, and lemon juice and put them on a baking sheet. After I turn the oven on, I turn and see Neville standing behind me, watching me curiously.

"Second cupboard, there's rice and a can of corn."

He retrieves the items without comment.

"You really are a Muggle now," he says conversationally, but I get the feeling he's testing his boundaries.

I don't reply for a moment. I open the corn with my handheld can opener and pull out two small pots.

"I suppose I am."

He pulls at the collar of his shirt. "I saw you using magic earlier…but it was like you couldn't believe your eyes when it worked."

I measure out water and fill the pots up, put them on the stove and turn it on.

"I haven't used magic in over seven years." I look at Neville to see if he has any reaction. His face is still passive. "I…forgot what it was like, I guess."

"I wasn't very good at magic at first. When it started to get easier, it felt amazing." He runs a hand through his hair, thoroughly ruffling it up. "You were born to be a witch, Hermione. You're doing yourself a disservice trying to be something you're not."

The oven beeps incessantly and I put the salmon in. I try to avoid letting him see my face, because I can't control it at this point.

His words hit me somewhere deep within. Somewhere I thought didn't exist anymore.

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_Reviews are appreciated. Let me know how I'm doing!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN:** Thank you to **Arpad Hrunta**, **Smithback**, and **Vera Rozalsky** for your reviews. Your support is very appreciated.

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**Chapter Three**

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**19 November 2005, early morning**

I took my wand with me when I left my house this morning. It's the first time I've been with my wand outside of my flat for quite a long time. It feels odd to have it in my sleeve. I took the pains to dig out an old sweatshirt from the bottom of my wardrobe that had sleeve holsters. I hadn't worn it since probably sixth year. I was honestly very surprised it still fit. It is only a little snug.

But when I pulled the shirt out, I was overwhelmed with the scent – after seven years, the smell of what I had come to associate as 'the other side' or 'the Wizarding world' – still vaguely lingered in the fabric. I had laid it on my bed, running my hands over it. I don't know if I had imagined the scent or not.

The sun hasn't risen yet, and won't for probably another hour. The pre-dawn chill is intense and my eyes are watering a little from the wind. Since the other night, I have gotten maybe five hours of sleep, max. Seeing Neville seriously jarred my senses, and it was almost comical to go to work yesterday. Giles barely said a word to me – probably still mad because I wouldn't accept his lunch offer, and I was late to his precious staff meeting. That's two strikes against me and no real way to remedy it, save asking him out. But, I'm getting distracted from the real heart of the matter: It is too hard to focus on what has become my Ordinary Muggle Life when I had a real life wizard in my home.

I don't know why it was such a shock. I suppose his dogged persistence on finding me shouldn't have been a surprise. If anything I had learned about Neville over the years at Hogwarts is that he doesn't let things lie. I really can't fault him, because he saved our heads with it.

Once he left, I completely broke down. I could feel it after dinner. During the meal, it was complete silence. I think my salmon was a success, at any rate.

But after: He talked about his life now, teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, his friendship with Harry, Luna, and the Weasleys, and his more current research with Slughorn on a new use for Moondew. This piqued my interest.

Isn't that used in the Draught of Living Death? I had asked him.

"We had a nasty bit of business with it," Neville replied, sipping his wine. I took a sip of my drink, too, although it was creamy, sweet coffee to calm my nerves. "Some Death Eaters were using it as a means to escape Azkaban."

I didn't understand.

"Really, it was more a matter of appearing dead so they could be buried and then escape. Many wizards request they are buried with their wands – it's a Pureblood tradition. The only reason we figured it out was when Rodolphus Lestrange splinched himself."

I couldn't wrap my head around it.

How did they appear dead long enough to be buried? We brewed this very potion in class, but its actual Real Life uses were sort of skimmed over – it was just another potion to learn.

He said, if you take a large enough dose, you could appear dead for a long time. Long enough to actually die, if you weren't careful.

I recall shivering at that. What people would do to avoid paying for their transgressions. But then again, I had to remind myself that Azkaban was not a nice place. And I was understating it on purpose.

And have you found them all? I asked him, apprehensive for his answer. I was falling into the trap that was the other side – having Neville in my kitchen made it seem not so far away after all.

"Oh, it took a couple of years…but yes. After they figured out what happened, they had to dig up every grave of Death Eaters from the end of the war. Not everyone had escaped, only maybe four or five. I don't remember the exact number. The hardest one to catch was Yaxley. He had very extensive glamours and was hiding in Albania."

I remembered that Voldemort was rumored to be hiding in Albania, the first time he fell. But I really wanted to change _that_ subject, so I asked him about the Moondew.

He launched into a very interesting explanation about its calming properties. He said the Draught of Living Death makes your body appear dead because it slows the heart rate so dramatically that your skin goes cold, and you need breathe only minimally. He said, it paralyzes you, and the Moondew calms you so you don't feel like you're in a living hell when you take it. So, they found a way to tweak the Calming Draught so it was more fast-acting, which was very effective. It was still in the experimental stage, and St. Mungo's caught wind of it and was now funding their research.

He had smiled bitterly. "This would have been more useful right after the war. I know I had night-terrors about that damned snake for months."

Neville stayed with me until the hour was very late. I don't know exactly how we transitioned from me disarming him to amiable talk after dinner. I remember after the talking had died down we moved to the living room: me sitting in my armchair, simply staring at him. He sat back down on the couch, fresh glass of wine, sipping it slowly. His other hand was resting on his knee, his face one of ease and comfort. I have found myself thinking back on this moment the most since he finally departed.

And then when he did depart – I grabbed my wand and cast the Muffliato charm. He talked so freely about the world I was struggling to remember. However, I felt that old sting of pride at still knowing small details, like what potion Moondew was used in. But it didn't matter. He left and we didn't make plans to meet again. And he didn't ask me to go back, and a small and rather bitter voice in my head wondered if it was because he was a man of his word or if he saw how much of a _Muggle_ I really was now. He had said his goodbyes and hugged me very stiffly, as if unsure if it was the right thing to do. The scent of his shirt lingered long after – spice and dirt and magic. I think this is what really did me in. I was standing there rather limply, when he turned and I really thought he would ask to meet again. But no: he said, you really should put at least _some_ defenses around the flat. Just in case.

And then he left. I cast the charm, I went into my bedroom, and I screamed for nearly twenty minutes, clawing my clothing off and throwing things and then using Reparo, I think I even threw my heel at my bedroom mirror. I stared at my naked body after fixing it, tears and mascara and snot running down my face, my hair completely pulled out of its braid, thinking rather brutally how incredibly _ugly_ I was, how ugly I must appear to Neville, although it didn't matter anyway because I _wasn't_ going back, and he didn't make plans to meet with me again anyway, so what did it even matter?

I almost wince at the memory. Probably one of my weakest moments in recent history, for sure, but also I regard the memory as a little bit hazy because at that point, I was weak from the excitement and probably the use of magic, too. I remember the first few months at Hogwarts and how draining it was to do magic at first, most of us were so tired at the end of the night we fell into our beds and were asleep as soon as our heads hit our pillows. And then I think, it was probably one of the only times I truly felt I had much in common with everyone else.

It's still maybe thirty minutes to sunrise, and I can still feel my wand pressed against my forearm. More people are starting to walk about, and I can smell coffee and baking bread. I am almost tempted to have a sit-down and enjoy an ordinary Muggle newspaper with a nice cup, but then I have an almost devilish thought.

I walk down the street and find what I'm looking for: a deserted alley and, after checking as thoroughly as I can, devoid of security cameras. I am trying to figure out exactly how to remember to do what I'm trying to do. I imagine perfectly where I want to be.

Maybe the Muggles will think the _crack_ is a gunshot.

The sudden scent of the ocean overwhelms my senses entirely. I open my eyes and I am staring at the ocean – the deep blue-green as subtle waves move forward and back, and I feel my eyes brim with tears. I sit in the cold, hard sand. The last time I was here, I was only a child. Maybe even before my parents had noticed there was something different about their daughter.

I sit there for a long while. Nobody else is on the shore today. It is off-season, anyway.

I finally stand. I walk forward a little bit and kick off my shoes, and take my socks off along with them. I roll up my jeans and walk further still until just the very tip of the largest wave can skim over my toes. I almost giggle at the sensation. After awhile, I grow tired of the game and abandon it all and walk straight in, the stinging cold of the ocean penetrating down to the bone.

This is something I cannot forget: the simplicity of the cold ocean stinging my skin. It's the simple things that don't ask you how talented or pretty or how old you are. It's things that don't require a wand or how many words per minute do you type? This is attainable no matter who you are, Muggleborn or Pureblood, Muggle or whatever. I shake my head and look at the sky. The sun is slowly rising over the horizon, its light peaking through the clouds, and the only thing I see from left to right is the shore, the ocean, and something unattainable, and then I know I have crossed from the realm of what is solid to what is abstract. It hurts to stand in the ocean, but it hurts no matter where I'm standing, really.

The wind blows my hair in all sorts of directions and I can't help but laugh. At least I am alive. At least I have some good memories, before everything went wrong. And at least Neville is safe in his world, free to study plants and be happy. I never did ask him if he was married, or a father. He didn't mention it, so I didn't think to ask.

And I have the memory of him sitting on my couch, and I pretend that it is a regularity with us. In my head, we are just normal Muggles who happened to meet one day at a café, and he comes over for dinner to listen to me talk about my mundane life where nothing exciting happens at all, and he tells me about his botany career.

I want to imagine a world where everything is as it seems and there is no other world. Where nobody died because of Dark Wizards and their followers. Where kids didn't have to grow up knowing their parents died fighting a war when they were only babies. And in this imagined world in my head, I could finally be at peace.

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_Reviews are appreciated. Let me know how I'm doing!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN: **Thank you to **Arpad Hrunta **for your review. I should also take a moment to say that this chapter is over 1,200 words longer than the others, but I couldn't find a very appropriate place to cut it.

If anybody is interested in reading more about Wizarding Society as I believe it to be, you should catch 'Amends, or Truth and Reconciliation' by Vera Rozalsky, another excellent HGNL pairing story that focuses a lot on traditions and post-war goodness.

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**Chapter Four**

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**23 November 2005, afternoon**

Wednesday. Winter is full-on, by now; I felt it this morning when I left my building. I saw the angry gray clouds above, but after closer inspection, they were really just one big cloud. Hiding the sun. The snow that fell burned my face and I walked as quickly as I could to the bus stop.

And now: spreadsheets and emails and that bloody persistent Giles, whom I would guess by his unnecessary tarriances around my desk, has forgiven me. But no, not fully, because when he came around the last time I looked up and truly saw the look on his face, one of bitter resignation, and I thought viciously that maybe he'll stop asking me out, at least.

It is too much to hope for, I know. Since I started here about a year ago it's been the same dance, and quite a tiresome one at that. But that goes without saying, and all I can really do is keep working.

"Alice, it's nearly lunchtime."

I struggle to not roll my eyes. And then I start wondering about the possibility of finding another firm, because Giles is nothing short of a pest and I really just wanted _peace_.

"Yes, Giles. I am finishing up this draft and I'll be going to lunch."

I don't look at him to make my point. I can still feel his presence, though, lingering somewhere behind me. I have been, maybe foolishly, taking my wand with me everywhere I go now. I had modified all of my long sleeved clothing with sleeve holsters. The novelty has still not quite worn off. I am always aware of it sitting against my forearm, and sometimes the pull of magic is too much. When alone, especially at home, I find myself casting spells and charms and _yes_, I even put defenses around my home as Neville suggested.

As the days progressed I began to feel more and more bitter about that – the end of his visit, where in any normal social situation, that point would have been his queue to make future plans, but no: his suggestion about defenses, and then simply walking out as if it were the most natural thing to do. It had hit me to the bone. Because really it was rather condescending of him – as if I really were some stupid _Muggle _that had no idea how to protect myself.

What was _with_ that visit, anyway? The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. How very _Pureblood_ of him, to waltz into _my_ world and _my_ home as if he had every right. It brought back unpleasant memories – like when Draco Malfoy used to receive gifts of sweets from home – the look on his face that read nothing less than _this is what I deserve_. Draco took things because he felt entitled, the same way Neville broke into my home just because _he wanted to see me_, a passing fancy. Because he saw me on accident one day in London, and couldn't let it lie. Regardless of how his actions would make me feel.

At the time, I thought that I couldn't blame him. It was exactly what I would have done, had it been Harry. But in hindsight… I can feel the anger boiling up.

When he saw what a _Muggle_ I am now, he clammed up and just let the subject drop. Perhaps he thought there was more to my life, that I had holed up and was practicing Dark Magic or researching new potions or _something_ more bloody interesting than _cooking with my hands_.

I can't think about this, not now. I feel that unbearable surge of anger inside grow even stronger; it almost begs me to channel it into magic, and I can't simply_ reducto_ something right in front of my very Muggle boss. I realize rather abruptly that he is still hovering behind me.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I ask, aware that my voice is clipped with impatience.

"Just…checking over your work," Giles replies, and he bends down as if reading my computer screen. He is close enough that I can smell his cologne, and I shiver with revulsion.

"I think I'm going to head to lunch a little early. I'm really hungry," I turn off my monitor and quickly stand up, forcing Giles to move so I can pass.

"Let me take you. Seriously, my treat," he says, and puts on another one of his strange smiles. He probably thinks it's adorable on him, but it makes him look like a predator.

I simply shake my head and walk out the door. I do not have the patience for these stupid games.

* * *

In truth, I'm not especially hungry. I have avoided my favorite restaurant like the plague since that was the original place Neville saw me. I am too angry with him to go back in hopes he would find me there.

The defenses on my flat are not masterful or intricate; I was forced to rely on what books I had in my blue beaded bag. Yes, I kept it, but I had a bit of trouble finding it. It was in the very bottom of a box of old clothes and random bits of things that didn't have a real place in my apartment. With very unstable hands I had taken out a lot of the things I had in there, crying and bitter and nostalgic. The obvious magical things I hadn't much use for, not anymore, but it was the mundane, normal things that got me the most. Clothing, random toiletries, and even a bag of sweets. Letters from Harry and, more importantly, Ron.

I don't like to think about Ron because it manifests into my survival instinct of _why_ I cannot go back. And of course, thinking about Ron causes me to think about my parents, too, and then break down into someone that isn't quite myself. I cried for a very long time, on the floor of my bedroom, after reading the first letter I pulled out from Ron. It was written during the summer between our second and third year, pointless as were most of the letters he wrote me – Quidditch, how he missed Harry and me, and how that Sirius Black business was rather troubling, don't you agree?

I had to correct myself. This letter was _not_ pointless, because it captured the essence of who Ron was. _Not_ pointless.

People walk by and I stare relentlessly at the sky. The clouds that really look like one cloud – moving and swirling. The snow is falling much thicker now, but as soon as it hit the pavement, it melts. The earth is rejecting them, and I think, much the same way the Wizarding world rejected _me_. I almost laugh at that, because that's all very _poetic_, isn't it? It's not really a surprise that Neville wouldn't want to be involved with the likes of someone like _me_. A Muggle, now.

But I have to correct myself again. I'm not a Muggle, anymore. Not really. A shift occurred when I cast magic and Neville appeared in my living room. And then I wonder what went through his mind. Maybe he paced around the hall, arguing with himself if he should go in and disturb my life. And I have to remind myself of my conviction, that Neville didn't have to argue with himself because, in my mind, he had no doubt that that was what he should do. I find myself once more trapped in my bitter mindset.

_How very Pureblood of him._

I have to decide what to do. I cannot keep playing as if I'm a Muggle and then go home and cast spells like a second year student. I'm too old to be acting like this, like I have some disgusting secret. I have spreadsheets and deadlines and _sleep_ to catch up on. Every time I close my eyes, I see Neville's face. The nightmares are inevitable too, I suppose. Another thing to thank him for. I hadn't had that nightmare in years, the one with Ron and my parents.

I can't think about this. I check my mobile and see the time, and I walk back to work, trying to hum a tune but I couldn't quite remember the melody.

* * *

**24 November 2005, evening**

Once again, I am staring at the face of Neville Longbottom, and cursing myself for letting him into my house.

I was eating my dinner while listening to the radio. After I crossed over, silence was dreadfully unbearable because every creak was a Death Eater with intent to kill, and every gust of wind was Fiendfire coming to destroy my entire building – well, you get the idea. I was contemplating going to bed early and maybe not having to deal with the nightmares, when I heard a tentative knock at my door.

I wasn't expecting someone, so I pulled my wand out before I knew what I was doing and used the peephole. As a child I thought that was a very funny ploy in films, but now that I was in hiding, or semi-hiding, I utilized it every time someone knocked. And I saw him, Neville, comically stretched and rounded through the distorted lens. My heart dropped down to my feet and my breathing completely stopped, I think. I almost ran into my room and dove under my bed, hoping he would go away, when he said, "Please let me in."

I think it is his voice that does me in. He is gentle and commanding and those rounded Northern vowels bring remarkable comfort. When he talks I feel like I'm at Hogwarts again, or around a fire in the deep cold listening to tales of victory and sadness. You just don't hear people talk like that in London.

I would say that he made me open the door against my will, but I know that's not quite right.

He stepped through and after I closed the door he hugged me, crushingly. I was taken by such surprise that my reflexes were delayed; I stood there for at least ten seconds with my wand pointed up at the ceiling, the other arm hanging limply by my side. I finally came to and hugged him back, trying to squeeze the life out of him, my anger fresh on the surface because I really was very mad at him. But his embrace contradicted everything I felt. Purebloods don't hold onto almost-Muggles.

"I'm sorry."

This non-specific apology was almost as simple as that nod he gave me when he accepted my resistance to _going back_. And his apology made me realize that he knew he was wrong.

The tears came so quickly I couldn't stop them. They were crushing, and blinding, and for once someone was holding _me_ while _I_ broke down and not the other way around. I was positively shaking in his arms and he patted my hair and rubbed my back, and I almost forgot that this was _Neville_, the once-child with resolute clumsiness and no confidence to speak of. He held me and didn't shuffle or move or ask me why.

"I'm sorry; I made a mess of your shirt."

Neville only smiled and waved his wand. I was once more reminded at how easy it was for the magical. _Is that a mess? Not to worry, I have my wand._

"Let's sit down," I said, and we moved to the couch. Or rather, he moved to the couch while I got a bottle of wine and two glasses. I sat next to him and he accepted the drink, his eyes never quite leaving my face.

After a sip or two, I felt more human again and stared at him, taking in his appearance: dark hair kept short, not unlike the style he adopted the last years of Hogwarts; green-brown eyes – like the bottom of a lake, I think suddenly; crooked nose, and the Muggle attire, of course. Sweater, corduroy pants, boating shoes. He was a Pureblood wizard but his clothing didn't really suggest it – he would pass as a Muggle anywhere he went. Except I knew that if he lifted a wand and said an incantation, his channel of thought would become reality, as concrete as the couch we were sitting on.

Since he walked through the door, he hasn't spoken to me yet. But the silence isn't pressing or awkward, and we sit like we're old friends. And then a nagging voice in the back of my head says, _but we _are_ old friends_. I try to justify that to myself. But I find that I can't, because I don't think I know what real friendship is.

In truth, I'm a little embarrassed at my outburst of emotion, _in Neville Longbottom's arms_, no less. But if Neville thinks anything of it, he doesn't say, at least not specifically.

"I know you're probably mad at me," he finally says.

I don't reply because I think he has more to say.

"I shouldn't have left like that. And I'm sorry about that. It was just a lot harder than I thought it would be, seeing you. You're settled into this…this world, and you told me you couldn't be persuaded to go back, and I just…I don't know. I felt like I was intruding."

"You were," I say suddenly. I feel the bitterness come through in my voice. "And you didn't think how showing up would make me feel. You simply did it like you had the right." Unspoken was, _How very Pureblood of you._

He makes slight grimace, and takes another sip.

"It was wrong. I didn't have the right. I can't explain what was going through my head. Things have calmed down since Voldemort fell, yes. But when I saw you, something took over. I wasn't answering to reason anymore." And then he says, "I have your cat."

I feel a sort of numb shock.

"Crookshanks?"

"Yes. I guess I should say that I've had him since seventh year. Ginny brought him with her that year and he just kind of attached himself to me. And when you took off, and nobody could find you, I just kept him. He's a beast, that one."

I am staring at Neville's face, and I almost have the instinctual reaction to ask him if I can have Crookshanks back, but he's been Neville's for almost eight years now. I begin to realize just how much pain Neville probably felt seeing me again. Every time he looked at Crookshanks, he probably thought of his original owner in some form or another.

"He _is_ a beast. He's more useful than a normal cat. He knew that Scabbers wasn't quite right, although I didn't realize that at the time." I cringe a little, because thinking about Scabbers makes me think about Ron, and our ridiculous fight over my cat and his rat.

"Why are you here?" I ask finally. It's the question that was going to come out in some form or another, and I couldn't think of what else to say.

Neville doesn't say anything for a moment. I pour us another glass of wine. He swirls the liquid in his glass, staring at it as if it held the answer of my question.

"Mostly because I feel really bad about how I left. I went home and Crookshanks came to greet me and I…I broke down. We wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. After the war they passed out Order of Merlins and you got one, but you weren't at the ceremony to receive it. And I completely botched my chance at getting you back because I was _afraid_. You – you sounded so certain. I don't think I'm making much sense." Neville's voice is wavering slightly. He sets his glass down and begins toying with his sweater. "I know that what happened after the war was really, really hard for you, Hermione."

It was the closest he had ever come to mentioning by name what happened to me. I shake my head and hold my hand up.

"Don't –"

"But I have to. Don't you see? You are a hero, and you deserve the rewards. You are just too _smart_ for this, Hermione. I said it last time and I'll say it again. You're doing yourself a terrible disservice staying in this world. You don't belong here."

I ignore everything else and focus on the last bit. "But I don't belong in the other one, either. Not really."

Neville lifts his chin slightly, as if to get a better look at me. His expression changed to one of rigid distaste.

"You don't really believe that."

I make an irritated sound with my tongue. "It's easy for you, Neville. You're a Pureblood and you fit into their standards of what a wizard should be."

He looks affronted. "Who is '_their_'?"

"They. The Ministry. The other Purebloods. I don't know. That entire society that only tolerated me because of my connection to Harry. If it weren't for Harry, I wouldn't have had any friends at all."

I try to say this clinically, as if I were talking about someone else, far away. But I can't, and my eyes fill with tears again.

"That's not true," Neville says quietly. "You always had me. You will always have me."

I refuse to fall for the bait. "Oh, right – because you feel _bad_ about how you left it last time. You walk into my house, and see how very _ordinary_ I am, and you leave, but not before you make me feel _completely_ idiotic for not having defenses on my home. And you don't ask to meet again, because Pureblood wizards don't trifle with boring, stupid _Muggles_."

I think Neville is at a loss for words. But then his eyes lock on mine, and I suddenly realize how very strong he is, not just in body, but in personality.

"I won't have you talking like that." His voice is completely devoid the warm intonations I was so used to. Now it was nothing but hard, clipped _power_. "Not only are you completely wrong, you're talking to me as if I were someone like Bellatrix. And as stupid as I was to disrupt your life, I don't deserve _that_."

Oh.

I have never been afraid of Neville before, but now that he was sitting so close to me, and so angry, I began to see that maybe this is what the Carrows thought, too, when Neville refused to torture other students for class. That he wasn't just magically strong, but he could snap their necks if he so desired.

Yes, Neville would fit into the Muggle world just fine, if ever he so desired.

* * *

_Reviews are appreciated._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN: **Thanks to **Arpad Hrunta**, **Guest**, and **smithback** for your reviews.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

**24 November 2005, evening**

Neville's appearance in my home has turned from rocky at best to very bad.

Our conversation is at something of a standstill. He said very clearly that he doesn't deserve _that_, _that_ being my brash and unjust accusations, but I think he's mad about more than that, too. Or maybe not anger, but disappointment. I didn't greet him with open arms, and I think deep down he was expecting that.

His peaceful expression is gone. He's looking at me like I had transformed into something alien, and I recall too vividly the expression Lucius Malfoy gave me the first time he saw me, when he realized who I was.

_Mudblood_. Not worth the wood that made my wand.

It's almost comical, really. I never thought so much about bloodlines before, until I disappeared in the dark of the night and found my way back into Muggle territory. Time away has hardened my perception of what the wizarding world really is. When I was in school, I was still a child. I didn't understand the colossal weight of what those words really meant. Mudblood. Halfblood. I knew it was an insult, yes, but to me it was no worse than calling someone a _duffer _or maybe a very bad word. If I had stayed, I don't know if it would have gotten better for me or not. Voldemort didn't gain followers for nothing. There were, and probably still are, people who truly believed in the dogma.

I think Neville finally realizes just how much I've changed. And I don't think he likes what he sees.

"I don't think you're like Bellatrix," I say quietly. I fill myself another glass of wine, and I note that I already feel its effects. The world suddenly seems more forgiving, and less bleak: Neville's face has softened, but I know he's still upset.

"Then what _do_ you think? Where are these thoughts coming from?"

I smile rather bitterly. That is a good question, one I don't readily have an answer for. Now it's my turn to swirl the wine in my glass, staring into its depths.

"I think…I'm angry at a lot of things. I'm angry at you, for making me feel stupid. I'm angry at that world, for accepting me and then abusing me. And I'm angry at myself…for being stupid enough to keep pushing my luck and letting people I loved die."

My face is flushed and I am fighting back tears. It's impossible, though – since Neville showed up the first time they have been building up and pounding on my throat like water on a dam.

"That wasn't your fault," Neville says, all gentleness and command back in his voice.

Now it was _my_ turn to be angry. I sit up straight and point my finger right in his face.

"If you really think that, then fuck you. Ron and my parents died because I didn't belong. I should have listened. Even _Draco sodding Malfoy_ had the decency to warn me! I refused to listen because I thought I was _so much cleverer_ than him, that I would have the best scores and the best practicals and the longest essays – that I could somehow prove my worth in reading too much and helping _The Boy Who Lived_ save the world." The tears are flowing freely down my face, and I don't think my words are clear enough to be understood. "But it wasn't enough! It was never enough! And you walk into my life again when I specifically, very rigidly, had laid the grounds to _not be found_ as if it were the most natural thing in the world for you to do, as if I would run up to you and we would chat like old friends. Fuck you, Neville. You've opened up wounds that have only finished scarring. And I can't believe you don't see that."

When I finish my rant, I'm breathing very heavily and I set my glass down so I wouldn't spill it all over myself. I can't look at Neville's face. And I can't stop crying, how bloody wonderful. I put my hands on my face and I very much expect him to leave me there, to close the door and never return.

But no: a shift of weight, and his arms are around me again; I am once more crushed into his chest, his overwhelming scent engraining itself into my senses. My emotion is such that I have an unbearable urge to beat at his chest like a little girl, or scream, or act like a wounded animal. But I know that in truth, it is not Neville I am angry with. It is me, because I was the _brightest witch of my age_ and I couldn't cut my losses while I had the chance. I was too damn _proud_, and it ruined my life.

They don't warn about the Seven Deadly Sins for nothing.

Neville is again patting my hair, but after a moment of this he begins to run his hands through it, something my mother used to do. His body heat is enfolding itself around me, and I'm only numbly aware of the thought, _When did he get so good at this?_ When my tears stop, I expect him to let go, but he doesn't. I realize that I am hugging him back; I don't remember putting my arms around him. I can feel his heartbeat, steadfast and sure, through his shirt.

He rests his cheek on the top of my head. "I know you feel responsible for what happened. But I really wish you'd understand that it wasn't your fault. You cannot blame yourself for something like that, it'll drive you mad."

"I think I already am mad," I whisper. "I've been so messed up since it happened it's just become who I am."

The absence of warmth from the top of my head and large hands on my shoulders. He's pulling me back, so he can look at me. He takes a hand and wipes the last trace of tears from my face, somber expression darkening his eyes.

"You're not messed up. I wish you'd see. This is why I want you to come back. Everyone went through this in some way or another, and we all took care of each other, because that's what friends do."

I nod, not entirely positive if I was agreeing or just affirming I heard what he said.

"Have you told anybody where I am?" I ask suddenly.

He looks a little startled at the change of topic. "Well…no. Or rather, I wasn't going to do that without your permission."

He drops his hands, but doesn't move back to the end of the couch. I look up at his face, all soft and yet so rigid, too. I am suddenly very stricken with the thought of how handsome he really is. A thought I had certainly never entertained before. I feel heat on my face and quickly look away.

"I…I don't think I'm ready for that." What's unspoken is, _I'm not ready to explain myself._

Neville nods. "Come see my house, then. It's in the country, up north. It's only my Gran and me." It's not a question, but it bears the weight of one, like he's testing more boundaries and afraid of my response.

That answers that question I never thought to ask last time, when I wondered if he was married or not. I look in my lap and suddenly feel very shy.

"Like…Longbottom Manor?"

I can hear the amusement in his voice.

"Of sorts."

I feel a little uncertain. As soon as he said it, I realized how much I wanted to go, like a small child promised a new toy they didn't know existed before. But another part of me is not entirely certain this is a good idea.

But what do I have to lose?

"I'll…go."

* * *

**25 November 2005, evening**

We agreed that I would come for Christmas. With Neville teaching at Hogwarts, he wouldn't get a break until the students let out for the holidays. After he left – another crushing embrace, and a whisper that he would be back as soon as he could – I sat on my couch for a long time. I pulled my wand out and once more cast the colorful canaries around my head, staring into the wall like it held the answer I sought.

With that last promised whisper, these meetings have shifted from isolated incidents to _arrangements_. Neville's face is clearly plastered on the front of my mind, but it's not the same face I remember from school. _Of course not._ He's 25 now, but he looks more like 30. He wouldn't say it outright, but when he said "_we all took care of each other_", I got the feeling he meant "_I took care of everyone_".

I want to ask him about what happened after I left, how people coped and how they rebuilt the world that had dealt with so much loss. I feel something for the first time: shame. I shouldn't have to ask. I should have been there to see it firsthand. And while I don't believe Neville would say anything so hurtful – _no, he's not like me_ – I can't help but wonder if it's what he thinks anyway.

But when I was looking at him, I had no clue who I was looking at.

I only know what he told me about his life now. I don't know what his favorite food is, or where he likes to go to be alone. I don't know who he fancies, or if he prefers winter or summer. All of those things, at one point, I could have readily answered about Harry, or _Ron_. But I can't think about Ron without that crushing, deafening feeling in my chest. I have refused to really think about him for seven years.

But Neville's face makes me think about Hogwarts, which makes me think about Harry, and _Ron_. It is a vicious cycle, and when agreed to visit Neville at his house, it was more out of desperation. _Please fix me_. Unspoken, but very loud in the room. And he was so very convincing of that being his main game while he was rubbing my hair and patting my back. It was like he was saying, "_You're going to be alright, because I've got you now_."

I have nothing to offer him. I have no real points for conversation, unless he wants to hear about the life of a Muggle. I have no real hobbies or talents, and I have no fucking _clue_ what I would say to his Gran. From what I have heard and seen of her, I couldn't bank on her disappearing the duration of my stay. Likely she'll want to know things. Things I can't really talk about.

And not to mention work. I'm going to take a week's vacation for my visit, and Giles looked at me through narrowed eyes when I put in the form.

"You've never taken a vacation before."

"Yes, and it's high time I did," I replied.

"You'll still be at the Christmas party?" A question that wasn't really a question. He made the Christmas party mandatory.

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"I'll be looking for you," he said. It was almost creepy, because he sees me every day at work, and we had just over three weeks until the party.

But that was work. And now, at home, I can be at peace.

Expect my mobile is vibrating against my pocket, and I pull it out.

**Alice, let's go 2 the party together. It'll B fun. xxxGiles**

I have the sudden impulse to throw my mobile at the wall. It would be most satisfying to see it break into a few hundred pieces. Giles has gone beyond the realm of a pest. He's more like a raw, aching blister on the bottom of my foot when I still have a mile to go. His persistence would be cute if he had any personality or respect for my feelings.

But he doesn't, and it's not.

I hope Neville will visit again soon. I think I'm going to ask him to the Christmas party.

* * *

_Reviews are appreciated._


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN:** Thank you to **greaves**, **Vera Rozalsky**, **Shiva**, **Smithback**, **okay**, **churchie**, and **Arpad Hrunta** for your reviews. Thank you to anybody who favorited and/or followed this story.

I wrote a one-shot for The Holiday Season Challenge called _Happy Christmas, Hermione_ which can be found on my timeline. Lots of HGNL goodness. :) I also have a poll on my profile that I'd appreciate anybody to participate in.

Now, happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

* * *

**3 December 2005, evening**

It's been nine days since I last saw Neville.

His absence is very real to me; a tangible thing I can feel and touch. Each morning, I awoke with the thought that he would knock on my door that night, at some point in my after-work routine. When I went to bed after casting a glance at my empty living room, cold without his presence, my resignation would simply grow stronger. _Tomorrow,_ I thought. _He'll come tomorrow._

I don't know why I had such faith in him, after so many years of the bitter sort of cadence my thoughts had took on about _the other side_.

I already told Giles I wouldn't go with him to the Christmas party. As a general rule to myself I don't reply to his SMSs unless absolutely necessary. I can't help but wonder what it must be like to be him, so sure of his stance and presence in the world, and believing himself to be _so _charming. I've never, ever given him reason to think that I'm interested; the prospect of _us_, whatever that is to him, must be something imagined in his mind. I almost feel sorry for him.

It goes without saying that the look on his face when I declined his offer was something to savor.

In any case, I am desperately waiting for Neville to come to me again. I know it would be quite easy to go to him, but that's not even an option to consider right now. Not for me.

It's Saturday, and a group of my friends from uni are meeting for dinner and drinks. I don't feel particularly inclined to go, but I need the distraction. I spend too much time alone, even more especially, under the pretense of being tired or over-worked, but I know that it's because I'm waiting for Neville. I can't help but to scold myself, because Neville's presence in my life is the complete opposite of what I had planned. He wormed his way in, and now I don't know what that means for my future anymore.

The night is positively frigid, but I can't cast a warming charm in a street full of Muggles. I tighten my scarf around my neck and walk briskly to the bus stop. I check my mobile; 19:42. I will be a little late, but it will have to do.

"Hermione!" I hear, and I whip my head around because I know that it's _him_.

Neville walks up to me, hands stuffed in his pockets, grinning a little sheepishly. He's wearing a pea coat and an orange scarf, his face is thoroughly red from the cold.

"I came to visit, but it appears you have plans," Neville says.

"I wasn't expecting you; it's been nine days," I reply, and realize how absolutely batty it must sound to know exactly how much time had passed since his last visit.

"I know, and I'm sorry. It's been sort of crazy at Hogwarts, the students are getting restless for holiday and the mandrakes are in a really temperamental stage…"

I hold my hand up and shake my head. "It's okay, I think what I said came out a lot worse than I meant it to." I smile a little. "I'm just going to dinner with some old friends from uni. Come along."

He nods, and we stand there rather awkwardly for a moment. For the first time, I notice how much taller than me he is. By six inches at least. It's such an odd sight – to see him here, plastered against Muggle London, looking like a normal bloke.

"When we're there, you should call me Alice," I say suddenly. "They don't know me as Hermione."

Neville nods again. "Interesting choice of a name…that's my mum's name."

I startle a little; I hadn't thought of that when I chose it. When I was a little girl, my own mother would read to me from _Alice in Wonderland_ and it was easily my favorite childhood book. I can almost feel the warmth of my bed and the rhythm of her voice resonating through me even now.

"It's a character from a book I used to love, a Muggle one," I say.

"_Alice in Wonderland_?" Neville asks me, his head tilted in question. I look at him in shock because I didn't know that Pureblood wizards had any knowledge of Muggle literature at all.

"How –"

Neville laughs. "Gran loves Muggle books. She taught me to read off them – _The Hobbit_ and _The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_ were my absolute favorites when I was little. Of course there was _The Tales of Beetle the Bard_, but Muggle books were so _different_ than anything you could find in the Wizarding world. They created worlds like we never could."

There's a slight sadness in his voice, as if he's talking about a time he misses very much but can't revisit. I stare at him, regarding the way the streetlights reflect off his eyes, his face.

"We don't need to create worlds that don't exist with _words_ because we have magic. We only need raise our wands and what we wish comes to life. For Muggles, they're limited by what they know, and this stimulates imagination. They're fascinated by magic – of all kinds – and it shows by the books they write."

I stand there for a moment, taking in his profound statement. His hands are still in his pockets and he isn't shuffling or moving at all, he's completely still and it unnerves me a little. Such a contrast to the way he was in school, when he was nervous and shaking over a cauldron.

"I've never really thought about that before," I say slowly. "But I suppose I'm inclined to agree with you."

A soft smile from him is his only answer, and the bus rolls up.

* * *

I don't know what I expected bringing Neville along, but I think I held a breath every time someone looked our way. I wondered how we looked to an ordinary Muggle; if we looked out of place or suspicious. Certainly, Neville wasn't. He walked with me and only mildly took in the sights, as if he spent every day riding the bus and walking the streets of London. For whatever he was thinking, there was no echo of it on his face.

We arrived at the restaurant and I was mildly irritated that we were late. I don't like to be late; I like to have control over the few precious things I could.

When we sat, Neville pulled my chair for me, and I looked at him sharply. It was an archaic gesture in this crowded Muggle restaurant, and a few of my friends were looking at Neville with amusement.

"You didn't say you were bringing anybody, Alice! It's about time, I'd reckon," says Brian, who was a philosophy major at uni, and a professor now. I feel my face color.

"He's a friend from boarding school," I reply quickly as I sit. "He came for a visit and I invited him, last minute."

Claire, Brian's wife, nods serenely. If it weren't for the obvious fact that she's a Muggle, I'd question her kinship to Luna Lovegood – she never failed to remind me rather starkly of Luna. She often wore that disconnected expression and said things out of place; it was hard to hold a real conversation with her and I don't like to talk to her directly unless I have to.

The server comes to the table and I turn my head and whisper to Neville to get whatever he wants. I know he has no Muggle money. He inclines his head and we both order a pint.

The evening passes and my friends are very curious about Neville. His accent is what interests them first; they want to know where he's from and from there, how he came to know me at boarding school. If he was embarrassed by the attention, he doesn't show it. He answers all of their questions carefully, because choosing the wrong word would cause them to pique more interest and ask more specific questions.

"And what do you do now?" asks Justin. My eyes flick in his direction; at uni we had a sort of fling that ended very badly – he wanted more than I could offer at the time: marriage, kids, a house in the suburbs. Justin has been eyeing Neville and me the whole evening, a look between distaste and arrogance. He was surely sizing him up and comparing Neville to himself.

It's the first time Neville falters with a response. He looks at me quickly, and I feel my face heat again because I _know_ that my friends saw it, and probably noted how strange it seemed. They don't miss a beat, none of them.

"I'm a botany professor, of sorts," Neville says finally, his voice clipped.

"_Of sorts_? Pray tell us what you mean," Justin replies, hardly masking the contempt in his voice.

"I spend more time researching than teaching," he says.

"What is there to research?" Brian asks him.

I can feel the tension at our table. Or maybe I created the tension myself because bringing Neville was a _very_ bad idea.

"We're working discovering new ways to use plants as healing components," Neville replies, completely ignoring the rude tone in Justin's voice. "There are a lot of people who don't want to use pharmaceuticals as their first choice of medicine. For example, if you get poison ivy, an allergic reaction to a plant that grows in North America, it's really uncomfortable and itchy and most people take over-the-counter pills that contain antihistamines, but these are tough on the liver and can cause liver damage if you rely on them too much. But, there's a plant called the Orange Jewelweed native to North America whose stem juice does the same thing a pill would do without the toll on your liver."

By now, most everyone's eyes have glazed over because they weren't expecting such a thorough response; however I am completely floored not only by his response but the fact that he _knew_ all that. I stare at him as if I had never seen him before. He looks at me and grins.

"I think they fell asleep," he says.

"No, not at all," Claire says. "That was so _interesting_." She is beaming, and Justin gives her a look of dismay.

Conversation took a different route, and nobody asked Neville anything else for the rest of the night.

* * *

I'm giggling, I had too many pints and the cold air is delicious on my face.

Neville and I are walking back to my flat. After we got off the bus, I asked him if he wouldn't mind a stroll around the block.

The soft fuzz the world takes on after you've had one too many is such a thrill. You start to think about things as you never had before. I'm currently lost in one of those thoughts; wondering how they chose to design the streets and blocks and where they came up with the grid pattern, when Neville takes my arm.

"You're swaying," he says, an affectionate smile on his face. I don't know why he has it, he just does, and this makes me giggle too, because Neville is so _cute_ when he smiles like that.

"That look on your face is cute," I say. This causes him to blush and he shakes his head.

"You've had too much to drink."

"I haven't! I'm only stating facts!"

Neville doesn't reply, and I start to feel like he's disapproving of my behavior. I make an effort to stand up straighter and hold my tongue.

"I forgot…I was going to invite you to my firm's Christmas party."

He knits his brow. "Really? When is it?"

"Two weeks. I have an awful boss, named Giles, he keeps bothering me about going out with him and then he got mad because I wouldn't go to the party with him, but I really want to go with you, and the look on his face will be ever so funny…"

Neville laughs. "You want me to go so you can make this bloke jealous?"

I stop walking, which was a feat considering my arm is attached to a very sturdy Neville.

"No," I say, in a very serious voice. "No, I want to go, with you. At first, I didn't think that you showing up in my life was a good thing, not at all. I considered moving away, then you were at my house later that night. But now, I was so sad when you didn't come to see me for such a long time…"

I stop speaking because Neville is looking at me like he can't believe his eyes. I worry for a moment that I have something on my face, but then he speaks.

"I didn't know. I'm so sorry." I don't have time to ask what it was he _didn't know_, because he pulls me against him, one of his large hands holding the back of my head into his chest. "I'll come around as often as I can."

With my face crushed into his chest, the world is black, and spinning. After a moment, I pull away, and we walk back to my flat. For me, I'll be going home, but for Neville, he'll be saying goodbye and returning to the other world.

* * *

_Reviews make the world go round. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN:** Thank you to **RaphaelWeasley**, **Vera Rozalsky**, **Arpad Hrunta**, **greaves**, **Smithback**, and** KTricia** for your reviews.

Because this story is set in England, I use some British slang. Translations for a few of the words I use:  
_Pissed_ - Drunk  
_Tosspot_ - Basically, it has the same connotation of _shithead _

Enjoy the chapter :)

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

**5 December 2005, early evening**

Monday. To me, this day means about the same thing it means to most other people: an alarm clock that signals the end of the weekend, complete with a never ending work day. Today especially went by slow, because Neville told me he would visit me this evening before he left on Saturday.

Honestly, I'm not proud of how I left things the other night. I was borderline drunk, and I think I said some things I shouldn't have. And because of my loose tongue, Neville realized I wanted him around, and I wouldn't be surprised if he knew I thought him fanciable, too.

Because I do. The other night showed me a side of him I hadn't yet seen. He's calm and collected in risky social situations; he fits into Muggle London like he was born there, and he knows exactly what to say to make things right.

And not to mention he isn't exactly hard on the eyes.

It's hard for me to admit – I haven't thought of a man like that since Justin at uni, and I didn't think it would happen again. It's not as if I had sworn men off entirely or anything; it just hadn't been on my list of priorities. I thought it was much simpler to be by myself. It's less complicated that way, and Muggles notice things about magical people that I haven't been able to put my finger on. They don't exactly put it into words, no, but sometimes I can see it in peoples' eyes – and it could explain a lot about why certain men pursue me.

Like Giles. One of the things that make my work day never ending.

I think he's got in his head that I am playing hard to get, because even after I told him I wouldn't go to the Christmas party with him, he continued to badger me. Even today, he asked again, with that disturbing look on his face as if I were a thing to eat, and I just couldn't hold my tongue – I blurted out that I already had a date to the party.

His body visibly bristled; his dark eyes glinted dangerously, and then he had the audacity to ask me who I was going with like it was _any _of his business.

"An old friend," I had said, staring at my computer.

"The same friend who made you late to the staff meeting last month?"

I turned to look at him, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

"Yes."

Giles put on a face that I couldn't really explain; it was like he had seen something rather repulsive on the telly but couldn't look away.

"How…nice."

I sighed, and turned back at my computer. The conversation wasn't going to go anywhere, and I had work to do.

Giles was quiet for a moment, but I knew he was still behind me; I hadn't heard him leave. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of him staring at me, but it was very hard. I finally gave up and turned to look at him again.

"Have you got something to say? Because I have work to do."

Giles faltered for a moment. He put on a very rigid smile, shook his head, and left.

"_Bloody tosspot_," I murmured viciously, and proceeded to finish my work as quickly as I could. I was already running late, and I didn't want to miss Neville.

* * *

**5 December 2005, late evening**

Leaving time, and I'm stopped again by Giles as I'm walking through the lobby to the door.

"You didn't say goodbye," he says in a strange voice. I look at him, and feel my wand hand flinch involuntarily. A dirty voice is whispering in the back of my mind how very _easy_ it would be to take care of him; I have to literally shake my head to knock it out.

"Why're you shakin' your head for?" Giles asks me again, slightly slurring his words. He steps closer to me and I smell it before I can fully understand the situation.

"Are...are you _pissed_?" I ask him before I can stop myself. My eyes widen at the sight; his eyes are slightly bloodshot and his usually neat hair has been ruffled quite a lot, as if he had been running his hands through it.

Giles stops coming toward me and halts, then makes a very strange face between anger and embarrassment. I realize very suddenly how dangerous the situation is: I stayed so late that everybody else had already gone home for the day. I take a tentative step back and know that I have only a few choices – run for it or hex him. Both are equally as dangerous; hexing him would let me get away but I would undoubtedly be in trouble with the Ministry, but running would only anger him further for work tomorrow.

"I've got to go," I say shakily. I clear my throat, willing my voice to be stronger. I _cannot_ afford to be weak right now. "Someone is expecting me."

This clearly was not the right thing to say: Giles laughs, his eyes glinting in the florescent light.

"You always _have to go_. Someone is _always_ expecting you. You're a bloody bitch, you know that? You don't know what's good for you. You think you can come in here, lookin' like _that -_" he eyes me up and down - "But I know that you're hiding something, and I _will_ find out what it is."

I stand there, frozen, unable to understand exactly what his drunken rant means but also very afraid. Of _course_ he would think I'm hiding something – but he probably thinks it's something very different than what I actually _am_ hiding. He is allured by what he can't have – but instead of being a gentleman about it, he tries to invoke fear. His tone of voice is what frightens me more than the actual words he's saying, and I know that running is no longer an option. I reach over to pull my wand out, his eyes following my hand, but before I reach the tip that's resting just a few inches above my wrist, I hear a voice from behind me.

"Hello?"

I know the voice, and I turn and see him. Neville is here for some inexplicable reason, and he looks from me to Giles, a worried look on his face. His eyes search Giles; from his drunken eyes to his tossed up hair, and then Neville goes from worried to angry. I see it as quick as a lightning bolt; and I can almost feel the heat even though he's fifteen feet away. I drop my hand quickly.

"What's going on here?" Neville asks.

"Who are you? This is a private business, lad, and we're closed," Giles snaps. But Neville's presence has caused a startle in Giles; he has stepped back some from me and he tries to smooth his hair back.

Neville's eyes narrow and he walks up to me, his eyes searching my face. I'm not sure how I look to him, but I don't think he likes what he sees.

He turns his head toward Giles, and his voice is pure venom. "Feel strong, yeah? Picking on someone half your size?" He looks back at me. "Let's go."

Neville links his arm with mine and practically pulls me out of the building. I am unable to really say anything for a few minutes. I almost _hexed_ a _Muggle_. I was mad enough to kill him. If Neville hadn't have arrived, what would I have done?

"What happened?" Neville says finally. He had stopped pulling me and we had slowed down to a more leisurely pace; it is dark and cold and my breath comes out in mists when I speak.

"I had to work over. Giles had been bothering me earlier about who I was going to the party with and I think I made him angry. When I was leaving, he stopped me. He was completely pissed and...I don't know. I panicked. I almost hexed him, Neville."

Neville doesn't reply for a moment – he looks at a movie poster on the side of a bus stop mildly, and watches the people that walk by us as if we were just taking a friendly stroll on a chilly night.

"You need to get out of there," he says finally.

"I've been thinking about it, but I can't just leave without notice. I have to find another job first, too, because I can't afford to live without one."

Neville sighs a little. "When you told me you wanted to make this bloke angry by bringing me – I didn't really understand. You didn't tell me he was _dangerous_."

He looks at me, and I feel a strange rush at the way his eyes search mine. I turn my head so I can see what's in front of me.

"He's not _dangerous_," I say, but immediately wish I hadn't. It's not exactly true, anymore. "I mean, he hasn't ever done anything like that before. He's always been annoying, yes, and persistent, but I've never seen him pissed at work and he's never made me feel like he was going to hurt me..."

"Until tonight," Neville says, seemingly finishing my sentence.

"Yes."

We fall silent again, taking in the sights. I don't even fully register that Neville is leading me and not back to my flat. We aren't in an area I traffic often; without thinking I pull him a little closer to me and I can feel the rhythm of his steps.

We walk up to a building I haven't seen in years; the secret entrance to St. Mungo's.

I blanch. "Neville -"

"I know what you're going to say. But...please. Just come in. Nobody's going to recognize you, anyway, and I'll cast a Notice-Me-Not on you. I want to see my parents tonight, and I want you there too."

I set my mouth in a rigid line, knowing he's counting on me to say yes, but probably expecting me to say no. My heart is pounding in my chest, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins – this is my past, and Neville is my present, and I know I could easily walk away and erase all of this from my future, but I am not sure that's what I want anymore. I stare at Neville – his peacoat, scarf, his windswept hair, that crooked nose, the lines of his face, everything that makes him who I know him to be, and I realize in that moment I cannot say no, because this is what he wants, and I can't deny him of it.

"Alright, yes, but...discreetly."

Neville only smiles, and after casting a glance around the empty street, waves his wand.

* * *

St. Mungo's doesn't smell like a normal Muggle hospital. This is the first thought that dominates my mind; and probably a pointless one at that. Neville and I walk quickly through the waiting room that is full of people with various things ailing them; one man has antlers and a little girl is crying because she has sprouted a cat's tail. There is a lot of noise, and yet the only thing I can think of is how the room smells musty and like incense, and I feel very silly because I don't remember thinking this the last time I was here back in fifth year.

We arrive to Neville's parents' room without any trouble. Any of the doctors – _healers_, I have to correct myself – that saw us smile fondly in Neville's direction and ask him if he's well. It's obvious he's here a lot; they great him by name. And because of the Notice-Me-Not charm, they didn't have any questions for me, and I thankfully didn't see anybody I recognized.

Once we were in the room, Neville gives me only a ghost of a smile before sitting on the end of his mum's bed. I settle in a chair and cross my legs, not bothering to take off my coat.

"How are you doing, mum?" Neville asks, his tone warm and affectionate. I watch him pat her head and lean down to kiss her cheek. "And you, dad?"

And without so much as a few breaths, he begins to talk to them like he's telling a story; he tells them about Hogwarts and the mandrakes and the research with the Moondew, and then with some embarrassment on my part he tells them about me and how he found me again; all the way up to how he found me at work with Giles. His voice never raises and his words never come out rushed. His parents watch him as if entranced by his voice, and I can't blame them, because I know that I have become entranced, too. I watch him speak, his face adopting that calm expression he so often wore, and realize that this is part of who he is, just as much as the color of his eyes or the pattern on his fingertips. I have a sudden thought of what it would be like to lay next to him at night and listen to him tell me about his day. Would he run his fingers through my hair? Would he hold me so close I could feel the beat of his heart?

I realize with these thoughts, I felt a sort of ache in my chest, because as nice as Neville is, we are of two different worlds. I have no intentions of running back to the Wizarding world, no, not after what happened. I'm sitting in St. Mungos, but I'm only here because I couldn't let Neville down – I don't belong here, not anymore. I don't really believe that I ever did.

Neville kisses both of his parents and stands up. He tells me it's time to leave, and takes my arm again. We leave St. Mungo's and walk in the direction of my flat, the cold air unnoticed by me because Neville overshadowed it; his warmth seeps through my coat, right into the depths of my soul.

* * *

_Reviews are appreciated._


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN: **Thank you to **greaves**, **Arpad Hrunta**, **Vera Rozalsky**, **Eillibsniknej**, and **NevemTeve** for your reviews. Thanks for the favorites and/or follows, too.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

**5 December 2005, late evening**

Neville and I are settled comfortably on my couch, glasses of gin and tonic in hand, and I think to myself, _This is becoming something of a habit, isn't it?_ For everything about the setting was exactly the same as the other times we sat here together: the room is dimly lit, he is sitting back as if to relax, and I am turned toward him so I can look at him better. It _looks_ the same, but it doesn't feel the same, no – something about the dynamic of this _relationship_ has changed. I try not to think about the trip to St. Mungo's – it was a lot harder than I had anticipated, and something about that place jarred the senses within my memory that I had long ago pushed back. The _feeling_ of magic was there; as if it were tangible and something I could capture in my hands, nose, mouth.

I decide to talk to clear my mind of these restless thoughts; they aren't getting me anywhere.

"You never did tell me how you showed up so conveniently at work," I say, swirling the liquid in my glass.

Neville takes a sip of his, expression unchanging as always.

When he speaks, it's in a low voice, his Yorkshire accent rich in my ears. "You told me the other night you'd get off at five, and when I went to your house about fifteen till seven, you weren't at home. I dunno – something about what you said about your boss stuck in the back of my mind. I felt like you weren't telling me the whole story. Something just told me I should go and see if you were at work." He stops talking, eyes searching mine. My heart rate rises a little; I wish I knew what he thought when he looks at me like that.

"I guess it's a good thing you did, then. Although, I could have taken care of it myself," I say, a little bitterly. "I didn't come all this way on my own to be saved by a knight in shining armor when one bad thing happens."

Neville laughs – it's a pleasant sound.

"Hermione, I _know_ you can take care of yourself. I just can't help myself sometimes. I was worried about you."

I give him a look of distaste, although I don't really mean it. After being on my own for so long, I can't deny it feels good to have someone care about me.

"This drink is quite good," Neville says. "I've never had it before."

I nod, a little thankful for the change of topic. "I suppose wizards don't drink gin too often. It's one of my favorites."

We sit in silence for a moment. I marvel at how easy it is to be comfortably quiet with Neville; with most anybody else this would be awkward or boring, but here it just feels right. There's no need to fill the air with talk because anything that needs to be said will come out eventually.

My stomach rumbles, though, and I realize I haven't had anything to eat since noon.

"Hungry, are we?" Neville chuckles, and I feel a slight twinge of embarrassment.

"I haven't eaten in awhile," I reply, and stand up to prepare something. "Are you hungry, too?"

"I could eat," he says, and stands as well.

I nod and go to my kitchen to prepare some pasta with Alfredo; I'm not really in the mood to make anything complex. I notice how very _normal_ it seems to have Neville here helping me make supper. After so many years alone, I figured it would be strange. But it's enjoyable, and I can't help but think about all the nights I'll be in here doing this without him, and the image arouses a strange empty feeling inside me, as if I have lost something.

"I'm surprised you still do everything the Muggle way," Neville says casually as I put the pasta in the boiling water.

"Why wouldn't I?" I ask sharply.

"I dunno – I saw you doing magic. I figured you'd start to use it more."

I shake my head. "You wizards don't understand."

Neville knits his brow; it looks as if he can't decide to be offended or not.

"_We_ wizards?"

I turn to look at him, crossing my arms. "Yes, _you_ wizards. You've never known anything except how easy it is to wave a wand and have things appear. I like cooking with my hands, regardless of how much easier it would be to say a few words." I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice no matter how hard I try.

"I feel like there's something more you aren't telling me," Neville says, leaning against the counter. I can't help but feel a sudden, blind burst of anger at the sight. _I thought we were past this?_

"Think what you want," I snap. Neville raises an eyebrow, but says nothing more. I turn away from him to stir the pasta, but I can still feel him behind me, unmoving. Similar to what Giles likes to do to me at work, except different, because this is Neville and this is my _home_.

I turn again and stare at him; his mouth creeps into a small smile and this only infuriates me more.

"What's so funny?"

His smile drops and he shrugs. "You still haven't told me exactly what you meant."

I make an irritated _tut_ noise with my tongue. "Damn it, Neville, you're so bloody _persistent_. Didn't you ever think that _maybe_ sometimes it's better to leave it alone?"

I cross my arms again, and Neville sighs.

"Yeah – it _would_ be better to leave it alone, if it were someone I didn't care about."

Now it's _my_ turn to sigh. I felt the weight of the situation crushing me; this wasn't exactly the conversation I imagined having with him, and I had to take his simple statement and twist it into an argument or _whatever_ this is. Neville has proved to be a good person to have around. I don't really want to fight with him, but I also don't want to feel like I am doing something wrong by not using magic.

"It's hard to explain, Neville," I say, trying to be nicer about it all. "It's been a long time since I have known what it is truly like to be a witch. Sometimes I play with spells, but usually I go about things as I've done since I crossed over."

"You're afraid," Neville says simply.

"Excuse me?"

Neville stands up straight and walks a little closer to me; I uncross my arms and look at him warily.

"You're afraid to use magic all the time because it means you're not a Muggle anymore."

I turn around to finish the pasta; the sauce is ready and I strain the noodles and combine everything together. Neville has two plates before I even thought to grab them and I look at him incredulously.

"Good memory," he says sheepishly, and grins. His face looks almost boyish, like we were back at school again, but this only confuses my thoughts more. If I could base everything off that one look, I could see us in ten years over the dinner table; but I have to remember that beyond his good looks and charm, he's stirring up a lot of things I'd rather leave alone to collect dust.

I plate us both up and set things down at the table. I grab my drink and refresh it a little – the ice has completely melted. After we both have sat down, I look him over again.

He's pinpointed exactly how I feel, of course, and this frightens me because I didn't think I was that obvious. Beyond that, I'm looking at someone that shouldn't be in my kitchen at all, and sharing a meal with me no less. I can't bring myself to feel regret, though. I haven't felt this _alive_ in a very long time.

"You're right," I tell him, twirling my pasta. "I _am_ afraid."

Neville sits back in his chair, looking down at his plate. His face has lost all its playfulness; now it bears a look of sorrow, or remorse – I can't decide which. Maybe both.

"Yeah. I am too," he says quietly.

"Why?" I ask him, trying to think of all the reasons he would be afraid in this situation.

He's quiet for a moment; I've picked up on this little habit of his. Neville likes to think about what he says before he says it.

"I am afraid that me coming into your life will have negative consequences."

My face burns, and I take a bite to occupy myself somehow. I begin to feel that strange flutter of anxiety; the one that starts in your stomach and creeps into your heart and eventually pollutes your mind. What sort of consequences? What does he mean? Does he want to forget about all this and leave and never come back?

"Hermione?"

I shake my head; I can't will myself to speak just now. I'm always so collected and in control, except when Neville comes around.

"I'm sorry – I don't think that came out right." Neville's voice sounds odd, like he's talking through a screen; my ears begin to ring and I suddenly feel like I've been washed onto a cold shore after a shipwreck. I begin to feel very thirsty, so I put my fork down and finish the entirety of my drink at once.

"Hermione, please, look at me."

I look, because his voice is commanding and I can't deny it. He looks concerned, and pale, and I try to figure out why, but my heart is in my mouth so I can't talk. I feel like I did when I got that call from the morgue to go in and identify my parents' bodies – like I wasn't really apart of my body anymore. I try to have rational thought because I _know_ this _thing_ I'm experiencing is not logical. I have absolutely no reason to feel so afraid and upset because Neville is _not_ gone, he's right here, he's sitting at the table with me and he's staring at me and he wants to know what's wrong, but I can't speak, so what's the use? I'm accomplishing nothing, nothing at all.

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," I hear Neville say; his voice is in my ear and his hand is gripping my shoulder. I don't understand what he means at first because he's telling me to do something I'm already doing, but then I realize I'm not breathing at all, only holding a breath in effort to not hyperventilate, and I feel my fingers tingle when I finally exhale and inhale.

I look down at my hands in my lap and my heart slides down my throat, back to its proper place in my chest, and I find I can speak again.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "I don't know why this always happens when you're around."

Neville squeezes my shoulder. "Hermione, you can't apologize for being human." He sits down again. "Are you alright, now?"

I nod, and look at my near-full plate of food; I have barely touched any of it. I try to eat a few more bites.

He speaks again. "_I_ should apologize, it's my fault that happened, because I didn't explain what I meant. I shouldn't have said it at all. I'm not afraid to be around you, but I always seem to be saying the wrong thing and upsetting you when I'm not trying to..."

"No, Neville, it's _my_ fault. I always jump on every little thing you say when I know you're not trying to hurt me. I don't know why I do it. I'm the one who has problems here, not you."

Neville shakes his head. "Stop blaming yourself. Like I said, it's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for being human. I just wish I could have been there for you – you know, before, when all the bad stuff happened. I wish I could have helped you."

I laugh cynically. "Nobody could have helped me."

"Look at me," he says, and I look. His eyes are staring into mine, but I don't feel that surge of attraction I usually do when this happens; I only know he means business and he isn't joking.

"I would have done everything I could to help you. And since I couldn't before, I will do everything I can now."

The seriousness of his tone sends goosebumps over my skin. I don't fully believe that he can help me, though. I'm too set in my ways to change, now.

But all I can do is try to smile, because I don't want to argue anymore.

"Alright," I say, and take another bite. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Of course."

Silence. I sit and stare at my plate; I am not even remotely hungry anymore. Neville finishes his completely while I twirl my fork in my pasta.

Neville rises and takes both of our plates to the sink. I turn around to watch him; he doesn't use his wand to clean them, to my surprise. He washes them by hand and dries them with a towel. I try to understand why he would do it this way, but I don't want to ask for some reason. I am tired of stirring up trouble with Neville; he doesn't deserve it.

"It's probably time for me to get going," Neville says, and I stand to bid him goodbye. Something about this entire evening has thrown me off, and I feel even more strongly that the dynamic of this relationship has shifted somewhere I don't understand. I feel nervous, because when he leaves, he always hugs me, and to be so close to him is exactly what I want, but don't want, at the same time. To be close to him pulls me in – it makes me want to go with him to the other side, where I logically know I can't be.

I walk with him to the door, and we stand looking at each other for a moment. He looks very tired but still manages a little smile, his green-brown eyes affectionate, and I startle because he's looking at _me_ this way.

"I'm sorry again," he says, reaching out to hold my upper arm. "Next time, we'll do something fun, yeah? And Christmas is coming up; Gran is excited you're coming. She promises she won't bother us too much, but she wants to get to know the girl who helped me so much at school."

I blush a little at this. "Don't be sorry, it's my fault. I just wish..."

Neville watches me for a moment, but I don't know how to complete my thought. I was about to blurt out that I wish I knew what was going on between us; the strange spark of attraction I felt, and if he felt it too, and what exactly all this meant with him coming around. Am I just a broken thing he wants to fix?

But I don't say it, because I can't. "I just wish Christmas could come sooner."

I don't think he believes me, but he doesn't press it. "It's coming. And I'll be back soon. Please, take care of yourself, okay? I'm sorry, I know you don't want me to be, but I am."

And with that, he hugs me, tightly, as if I were a thing that could dissolve at any moment; as if I could melt away like the ice in a glass. I feel his heart and his breathing; I smell that spicy magic scent that has become nothing more than who he is. He's Neville, and he's here in my arms, and I don't want this moment to ever end. I hold him there longer than what would be customary, but he doesn't seem to mind.

After a moment, I force myself to let him go. He draws back and goes for the door, and I turn away because I don't want to watch him leave. My heart is in my mouth again, but this time because I'm in pain, physical pain, and I don't understand it. I don't understand anything when it comes to Neville.

"Hermione."

I look at him and try to smile. I do not want him to know that this goodbye is so hard for me, not when I don't really understand why.

"I'll be back soon. Take care of yourself."

I nod. "I will. I promise. Thank you."

Neville smiles, and waves. And then he is gone.

* * *

_Reviews are appreciated. :)_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, etc. Belongs to JK Rowling and this is only for fun.

**AN: **Many thanks to my reviewers of the last chapter: **iopgod**, **AngusH**, **Shadow82ABN**, **Gryffenclaw's Princess**, **Vera Rozalsky**, **greaves**, **Eillibsniknej**, **Guest**, and **Arpad Hrunta**. Your opinions and feedback is highly valued.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

**6 December 2005, morning**

If I was a Muggle, life would be simple.

I wouldn't wake up each day and have all these decisions. Should I sleep in a little more and chance Apparating to work? How about magically drying my hair instead of using the blow dryer? What about my coffee – should I flick my wand and have some appear in my cup? I am always wondering all of these things; every second of every day comparing the Muggle way to the Easier Way. It's like I'm stuck in a sort of limbo – a constant state of _to be or not to be_.

And of course, the paranoia. Why is that bloke looking at me like that? Have I an aura he can see? Or can he feel it, like static? Is my wand hidden properly in my sleeve? Is he someone from the other side that I don't recognize, but he recognizes me?

Before Neville, things were simpler. I didn't use my wand and I almost forgot what it was like to _be_ magical. I never really considered how much easier it would be to say a word or two and have everything I wanted without the labor. Instead, I worked hard, built a life inside Muggle London, and mostly kept to myself.

But, before Neville, I was much lonelier, and often I wondered how much longer I could go on like that.

I thought that I was resolute in my decision not to cross back over; the prospect of it is awfully frightening. But now, I'm not so sure. At night when I close my eyes, all I can see is Neville's face. When I dream, it's always of him: blinding sunlight shining behind him and a gust of wind that I can actually _feel_. It pushes me closer and closer to him, until I wake because I feel like I am unable to breathe.

Sometimes, in the dark of the night after one of these dreams, I imagine what it would be like to have him next to me. In my mind, he would sleep with one of those soft smiles, a heavy arm draped around me, and I would feel safe. I would snuggle closer until I could feel his body; the rhythm of his breath and the beat of his heart, and I would fall asleep again. When I wake again in the morning, I open my eyes, but I don't remember my game quick enough: he is not there, and I am alone.

This is one of those mornings. I open my eyes and know that he is not there, next to me, as he had surely been just a few hours ago. It is like holding something that disappears without warning; the absence fills my heart and becomes the deepest sorrow.

And I remember that just last night Neville had hugged me as if _I _would disappear like that.

And, I _know_ it's not real, that he was never next to me in bed, but it's still a hard reality: as cold as a winter's wind, as sharp as a knife piercing my chest.

I roll over and grab a pillow, holding it tightly to me, crushing my face into it so all I can smell is the fabric. My face begins to feel very hot, so I turn my head so I can breathe the fresh air of my bedroom instead. I don't want to move from this place. I don't want to go to work. I don't want to deal with anything that Real Life has to offer me. I want to go to wherever Neville is, but that thought is too illogical to really consider.

I grab my mobile and ring Giles.

"Hullo, Alice?"

I take a breath and try to sound miserable. "Giles, hi. I'm not feeling well today so I'm going to take a sick day."

Silence, for a moment.

"Alright."

Then, he ends the call without so much as a goodbye, and I toss my mobile across the bed. I roll over so I am facing away from the window, close my eyes, and drift back to sleep.

* * *

When I wake again, it is mid-morning, and I feel very groggy. I sit up and rub my eyes, and decide to take a long bath with a cup of coffee.

I decide this time to use magic. A wave of my wand and water rushes out of the spout in the tub, and in the kitchen, another wave grants me fresh coffee in the pot. With a flick I open the refrigerator door and with a murmur of "_Accio cream", _I have it in my hand. I wonder, vaguely, how much magic before my electronics fry, but the use of this much magic already has me spent. I haven't done it in awhile, and I already felt tired from the effort.

In the bathtub, I think about what I should do with my day. I could stay here and watch some telly, or go out and walk the streets. Another nagging thought came to surface: _Go to Neville_.

I take a sip of coffee and tell myself, _Absolutely not_. Neville is at Hogwarts, teaching classes and studying plants; I cannot simply walk through the grounds of Hogwarts without someone seeing me, and worse, what if he isn't in the greenhouses but actually _inside_?

But my mind didn't seem to care about this logic at all. Instead it began to draw memories that I tried so very hard to lock away. The grounds would be covered in snow, the lake would glimmer from the sunlight that peaks beyond the forest. The castle would stand, austere and welcoming all at once. I remembered the teachers, the hallways and alcoves, the windows that allowed sight far into the horizon. I remembered how at _home_ I felt, spending Saturdays in the library, or going down to Hagrid's with Harry and Ron to test our luck with a cup of his tea. I can almost feel the joy I felt at mastering a new spell or brewing a difficult potion.

And, in my bathtub, so far away from the place I was remembering, I realize all at once that I never left that place, not really. I physically left the Wizarding world, yes, but I left a piece of me with it: the part that I have believed, while living here on the other side, was broken and would be fixed with time. But in truth I couldn't fix it because it was missing, and I wouldn't feel whole again until I went back.

I stare at the bubbles that lie on the water and feel that familiar pang in my chest. I had to go back, and I couldn't limit myself to Neville's house. I had to go back, to the _other side_, and be there in full. I had to take the plunge and stop this dance with wading into the water as if testing its temperature. There is no going back, now, and a part of me has known that since that day I saw Neville's face staring into mine outside of the restaurant.

I decided, then, to go find Harry.

* * *

**6 December 2005, afternoon**

Whether by memory or by intuition, I found my way into the Ministry of Magic, but I have found that I cannot will myself to go any further.

The immense number of witches and wizards around me was startling at first; everyone is bustling around, I can hear the fountain ahead and I see the fireplaces all around alight with green flames, admitting or issuing people to and from. I notice how much smaller this place seems, now, when the last time I was here it seemed very big. Then, I was frightened and had a limited amount of time to reach a goal. Now, I'm frightened, but in a different way.

I cast a Notice-Me-Not charm just in case someone recognizes me. I'm not sure how many of my old classmates work here now; but I assume the chances of a few are rather high.

Harry, back in school, had ambition to be an Auror. This is the only thing I have to go on, save rushing off to Hogwarts, which I still don't believe would be a good idea at all – at least, not yet. My rather feeble plan is to try to find him. My entire body is shaking and my mouth is terribly dry, but I have to find him. But now that I am here, I can't seem to make my feet work. I'm still in a state of shock that I managed to come this far at all.

I decided I couldn't put off seeing Harry any longer. The Wizarding world is small; before long, someone was going to find out I am in contact with Neville. If not now, then definitely after Christmas when I spent a full two weeks in his house. I don't especially fancy being the reason Harry and Neville have a fight, because I _know_ that Harry will be furious when he finds out Neville has been hiding me.

Or, has he? Perhaps everyone knows by now. Neville hasn't said one way or the other, now that I think about it. He said he hadn't told anybody where I lived, but that doesn't mean he didn't tell people he had found me. My mind begins to race; what if I'm walking into a big mess? Surely, if people wanted to see me, Neville would try to persuade me. He had next to no trouble doing so to get me to go to St. Mungo's with him last night.

I need to stop. My thoughts have this horrible habit of racing in all sorts of directions. It makes me much more worried than I need to be. Whatever the situation, I will deal with it when I get there.

Yes. That's a much easier way to look at it than standing here in the front hall of the Ministry of Magic, panicking because I don't know what I'm doing at all. Because I don't. I don't know where to go, but I have to try.

So, with this thought, I begin to walk, slowly, through the crowd of people. I marvel at the attire; nearly everyone is wearing robes, or very old style suits. I even see one old woman in a vulture hat...

That's Neville's grandmother! I stop and move away so she doesn't see me - regardless of the Notice-Me-Not. I feel my anxiety creep up again and tell myself to breathe. She's gone already, and she didn't see me.

It's a moment before I can get a grip on myself and continue on; I know that I must use the lifts to get anywhere within the Ministry. There's a voice in the back of my head that tells me the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is on the second level – but where this bit of knowledge came from, I don't remember.

When I reach the lifts and arrive on the second level, I am aware that I am no longer in full control of my body. The lifts were jarring – the jerking and moving back and forward until it finally arrives to its destination with a shuddering stop, and that strange voice saying, "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Here, it is quieter, but that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of people walking about. Now that I'm here, I pay closer attention to those around me.

It isn't hard at all to find the place I'm looking for; there is a door about fifteen yards down the hallway labeled _Harry J. Potter – Head Auror_.

I stare at the door in a sort of shock; seven years, and this is how easy it is to find him. His name is on a door on the second level of the Ministry. Seven years, and I don't really remember what he looks like. I tentatively reach my hand out to open the door, but it is locked.

I click my tongue impatiently. I look to my left and right; nobody is paying me any attention, although I wouldn't count on the Notice-Me-Not to stop people from noticing someone is standing at Harry Potter's door, and rather suspiciously too. I chance to lean in, and try to figure out if there's anybody inside. I hear nothing – only the sounds of people talking and walking further down the hall.

I reach for my wand and mutter, "_Alohomora_." The lock clicks, and I am inside before someone notices what happened.

I find myself in a decently sized office; there are stacks of parchment and books everywhere, and trophies, medals, and various awards as well. Harry's desk is large but horribly cluttered, and I couldn't help but chuckle aloud because it is so in character.

It's deathly quiet, and I feel an odd sense of anticlimax. I check my watch, but to my disappointment, it isn't working – the seconds hand is stuck, and the watch is frozen at 3:43 or so – and I realize that of course, electronics wouldn't work here. So 3:43 must have been the time I arrived at the Ministry, and the time my watch met an untimely death.

Now, I find myself at a crossroad: should I wait here or leave? Surely Harry isn't done for the day; it can't be later than 4:30 in the afternoon. Maybe he went home early? I stand there for a moment, awkwardly, but my eyes are drawn to something on his desk: the back of a framed photograph. I walk over and pick it up with slightly shaking hands.

My heart completely drops at it. It's a picture of Harry, Ron and me, taken at the Burrow maybe a week after the end of the war. We are sitting on a couch, looking very uneasy and so prematurely _old_. Harry is trying to smile but it looks more like a grimace, while Ron isn't even attempting to smile; his face is haunted and all three of us look very tired. The death of Ron's brother did not bode easily after the war. I have a fake grin plastered on my face and my hands are clasped very tightly in my lap.

Ron has an easy arm draped on the back of the sofa, his hand barely visible because of my frizzy hair. And because this photograph _moves_, I am unable to put it down initially. The photograph's movement stimulates much more than sight in my mind; I try to envision the scent of the room - probably of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cooking, and also, what I would hear: maybe some hushed conversation in the kitchen, or the sounds of birds in the garden.

Seeing Harry and Ron's face after all this time is difficult. I had long ago forgotten exactly what they look like, and this picture brings it all fresh to the surface. I stare at Ron's long nose and freckles and feel a strange weight fall into the pit of my stomach. He was so _tall_, too. He towered over the both of us in this picture, even though we were sitting. Harry's more rigid features contrasted to Ron's quite a lot, and Harry looked like he could use a good lie-down. This is what the war did to us. Loss and pain. And only a short time later, we had to bear even more loss.

Too hard. I put the picture down, and stand there for a moment, numbly trying to figure out my next move. Then I see another picture, a loose one, and decide the temptation is too strong and pick it up, too.

I realize after a short moment I am staring at a family photo of Harry's family. He is smiling widely; with an arm around a pregnant Ginny, who is also holding a boy about two years old. He has a shock of black hair and green eyes, but he looks like Ginny otherwise. Nose, chin, brow, everything. My heart fills with a sort of joy I haven't felt in a long time; Harry is happy, and he has a family. He no longer looks tired, although I see a small amount of gray already in his hair; perhaps his position in the Ministry is very stressful. His hair is still unruly and he wears the same style of glasses, and I can't help but feel a terrible sadness at this photo, as well.

They moved on, and it makes me wonder why I haven't.

* * *

_Reviews are appreciated._


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**AN: **Thanks to **Smithback**, **Vera Rozalsky**, **Cheryl Grant**,** Gryffenclaw's Princess**, **Arpad Hrunta**, **greaves**, and **Eillibsniknej** for your reviews. Thanks for favorites and follows, too.

The "Penseive depositions" is credit to Vera's _Amends_.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

**6 December 2005, late afternoon**

I have two choices now: stay here and wait, or go home.

I am not particularly partial to either. I do want to see Harry, but I could be waiting for nothing for all I know. And if I leave, I might miss out on my chance. I stand there for a moment like this, trying to decide what to do, still holding the family photo in my hand. I realize I'm tapping my foot, and immediately stop.

I shake my head. I can always come back another day, but I might not have the nerve then.

"…I'm telling you mate, she needs support."

My ears perk almost painfully because I am once again _physically _aware of Neville's voice, and it's right at the door. I want to stamp my foot in frustration - why does he _always_ show up?

And then I hear another voice, familiar and alien at the same time - _Harry_.

"I still just can't believe you found her. I'd kill to see her again - wait, I thought I locked this?"

I hear the door jiggle, and then open - I feel the slight rush of cool air sweep inside the office, and I turn my face toward the two men walking inside. It's fairly dim in here now - according to the magic windows the sun is setting - and I don't think they're aware of my presence.

Or maybe I thought too soon. Neville knows, and he's staring right at me with a look of complete confusion on his face. Harry waves his wand to illuminate the office. The sudden bright light makes me squint a little.

"Hermione?" Neville says.

I can't speak, not yet. Not when Harry turns to look in the direction Neville's staring, and his face turns from curiosity to a sort of joy that can't be described with words. I'm not even entirely sure 'joy' is the right word, either: Harry looks like he can't believe his eyes and he isn't daring to truly believe that I'm here. Neville shifts his weight and crosses his arms, and a strange smug-like look crosses his features.

"Hermione…" Harry says slowly, and I nod my head a little. I realize I'm still holding the photo and hastily put it back down on the desk.

"Hi, Harry," I say quietly. "I decided to visit you today."

Neville's smug look has turned into a genuine grin. He hovers in the background and Harry takes a few steps toward me, as if still trying to decide that I'm actually real and not a figment of his imagination.

"It's been…" he starts.

"Seven years, yeah," I finish for him. I glance between him and Neville, trying to figure out why he is here and not at Hogwarts.

Silence passes between us all. I am rooted in my spot, heart thumping madly and my brain trying to register what's going to happen next. I expected high drama, however it's anything but: everyone, including me, seems lost for words and unable to make a move.

Finally, Neville clears his throat. It's a quiet sound, but it jars Harry into finally speaking.

"I've…I've really missed you, Hermione," he says, his voice wavering. He steps forward and takes a moment to perhaps question himself, but then embraces me, and I hesitate a moment before giving in and hugging him back properly. His familiar scent invades my mind, and I'm suddenly filled with images of Hogwarts, summers at the Burrow, Horcrux hunting in the woods. The imagery is far too much right now. I open my eyes and look over at Neville; the sight helps me focus. I remind myself that it's alright. Everything is alright.

Harry finally parts and looks at me for a long moment. "When Neville told me he found you, I couldn't believe it."

Neville's grin drops and he looks at his feet.

"He told you that, did he?" I ask. I note the color rising to Neville's cheeks and raise my eyebrows. Of course Neville told him that. I remember that the thought had crossed my mind when I first walked through the Ministry's door. I wait for the rush of anger, but it doesn't come.

"I told him because I needed advice," Neville says firmly, although he looks rather nervous.

"Actually, it was a bit of a row because he wouldn't tell me where you lived, or anything really," Harry says, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "I was all for breaking down your door. But Neville said…" he pauses for a moment. "Neville said that you didn't want to be found." His face drops, and I see a sadness in his eyes I cannot explain.

Neville sighs, a soft sound. I stand there for a moment, acutely aware that right now, at this moment, I am facing the consequences of what I did. It's all over Harry's face; plain to see. That what I did hurt him. I remember Neville's statement when trying to justify coming after me - "_When I saw you that day, it was like seeing a ghost._"

How cruel I'd been to Neville when he said that. How unforgiving, and utterly _ruthless_. I look between Harry and Neville, now, taking in their apprehensive faces. They're afraid of my reaction. And rightly so - I've proven myself unpredictable to the both of them, but mainly to Neville himself. I took all his attempts and threw them in his face, because I was afraid, afraid of facing the consequences of what I'd done, but claiming fear of the Wizarding world.

But these people aren't the enemy, no - the enemy is myself.

* * *

**6 December 2005, evening**

I am staring down at a wonderful portion of Shepard's pie, dimly aware of voices and laughter around us. Harry, Neville and I are nestled in a corner booth at The Leaky Cauldron, and with the dim lighting in this place, we are sufficiently shrouded from everyone around us.

I take a bite, savoring the hearty flavor of the meat and potatoes. Neville and Harry have tucked into theirs, too, and there is silence for a moment. I contemplate my surroundings. There is an old Wizarding photo behind us of an old man and a plump woman next to him, waving merrily at the camera from a booth. Next to it is a bowtruckle on a plaque. I stare at its glossy beady eyes for a moment and then return my attention to my dinner mates.

Harry is still eating, but every now and then his eyes flick in my direction; Neville is seated next to me so I don't know how many worried looks he's shooting my way. I sigh a little. Dinner is delicious, but we may as well be at a wake for how solemn everyone is.

"How's everyone's dinner?" I ask finally, weary of the silence. I take a sip of my pint, its dry hoppy flavor exploding in my mouth. A perfect complement to the Shepard's pie, but I suppose we're beyond small talk at this point.

"It's great," Neville says. I turn to look at him, and am quite comforted by the easy smile on his face. "I haven't been here in awhile."

"I come here at least once a week," Harry says. "You really can't beat their Shepard's pie."

"I've never had any this good before, I don't think. Except maybe Mrs. Weasley's." The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and then I look down at my plate, my face turning very red and thankful the lighting is so dim.

After a beat, I'm aware that my hand resting on the seat is enfolded in Neville's; I look over at him and he squeezes it, just enough to say, _I'm here_. It's soft in my mind, but as real as if he had leaned over and whispered it in my ear. My eyes drop from his and down his face. I take in the shadows his jaw casts over his neck, his steady breathing beneath his sweater. I imagine how warm he would be to move closer to, to rest my head on. I take a deep breath and catch his scent, and somehow, that seems more personal than him holding my hand. I feel my body heat in response to his scent, and I feel a strange sense of longing.

It is then that I know I desire him. Not just physically, although that plays a part. I desire his heart, and his soul. I want to hold all of him, everything that makes him breathe and feel. I have been lost all these years, wondering where my escape was. Wondering how I could keep it all up. It was as if a part of me was bracing myself for this. Someone to walk into my life and change it all.

Neville's hand squeezes mine again and I jerk to reality. I don't know exactly how long I've been staring at him, but obviously too long for comfort: even in this light, I can see his blush.

"Sorry," I say. "I guess I was lost in thought."

"Quite alright," Neville says.

He licks his lips, bites the bottom one. I stare at the movement, transfixed. I force myself to tear away and turn my head back to Harry.

Harry has an odd look on his face, as if he wants to say something but isn't sure how to put it. Suddenly, the look is gone, and he takes a hearty swig of his pint.

Neville and I do the same, and I realize his hand is still on mine. I wonder at that, because the moment he was trying to comfort me for is long passed; at least to me. All I am aware of now is how warm it is in here; how much I desire the man sitting next to me. It's an uncomfortable feeling because I can't do anything about it here.

"What are you doing for Christmas, Harry?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

"Hopefully I'll be spending it at home with Ginny and James. If I don't get called in," Harry replies, a knowing grin crossing his face before he takes another drink. He sets his mug down with a soft _clunk_. "I got called in last Christmas."

"Why?" I ask.

"Mostly it's because of who I am. After Voldemort fell, the Ministry underwent a huge…cleansing. Mass trials, raids, inventory sweeps, Pensieve depositions…I can't really explain everything all at once because it took over two years to completely get through everything. At the end of it all, a lot of crooked people lost their jobs, criminals went to Azkaban, and fresh faces were hired on."

Harry takes another drink, and my mind is trying to take in all this information. Neville hadn't told me any of this. I once again remember his hand is still on mine.

"Anyway…I'm Head Auror, but I might as well be Minister of Magic with the kind of weight they put on me sometimes. Which leads me back to last Christmas. They used to put up a huge tree near the fountain in the Ministry, decorated for the holidays. Well, last year someone had cursed it as a joke, and it was going berserk. Hitting people with its branches, chucking ornaments in every direction. The Auror on duty was the newest bloke, and he went sort of mad and flooed me before consulting anybody else because he thought a Dark Wizard was trying to off people with our Christmas tree. He flooed right into my living room while we were having breakfast and was shouting that 'The Boy Who Lived' had to save the Ministry from the killing tree."

Harry is telling this story in a very serious voice, but Neville bursts out laughing.

"Mate, you never told me that," Neville says, and takes his hand from mine to wipe his eyes. He sets it down on the table, and I feel a sense of loss.

"It's a little embarrassing," Harry says, wincing. "Not exactly the Ministry's _finest_ moment."

I take another drink, and a tiny bite of potatoes. "And then what happened?" I ask.

"I flooed right in and fixed it all up. We didn't put up a tree this year just in case, but the bloke who cursed it came forward and we had him do extra staff duty to make up for the mishap."

Neville is still chuckling. I don't personally see what is so funny. But then I realize: it's been seven years since any true fear of Dark Wizards. Most of the people here have been out of the shadow of fear I refused to leave.

We finish our pints and Neville pays for mine, as I don't have any Wizarding money. We approach the fire in preparation to floo back to the Ministry, and I glance at the door that leads to the magical entrance of Diagon Alley. I wonder, vaguely, when or if I'll have the courage to go through there again. I look at my Muggle purse and find myself thinking I don't have any real reason to.

Neville puts a hand on the back of my shoulder, a slight nudge. I am all too aware of the pressure, the warmth. I look at him, trying to appear emotionless, but I know it's no use: I see the flicker of _something_ cross his features. I try to smile, but only manage to lift the corners of my mouth. It doesn't reach my eyes, and I don't know why I even bothered.

* * *

**6 December 2005, late evening**

Neville and I walk through the streets back to my flat, his arm linked in mine, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. I take a moment to look at him, something I feel I do a lot. The cold air has reddened the tip of his nose and cheeks a bit, and I have a strong urge to pull him closer to me, even hold his hand. It would be easy to slide my arm down and grab it, but I don't.

I don't know what these feelings really mean. And I can't act impulsively when I've had no time to really think about any of it.

"Harry was happy to see you," Neville says, glancing at me. The street lights reflect off his eyes, and I have to look away.

"I know."

"You _will_ see him again, won't you?"

"I promised I would."

Silence. I don't know why I'm annoyed with this conversation, but I am. I feel a pang in my chest, and know I'm not doing this right. Neville has been nothing but good to me, and somehow I always manage to turn it sour.

"Look…I'm sorry. It's just been a trying day, I guess," I say.

Neville stops walking and turns to face me. My heart begins to hammer in my chest because his face is heartbreakingly sad. I reach up to touch his cheek, not really aware of my actions. The skin is cold from the wind, a little rough from stubble beginning to grow. I part my lips to speak, but he pulls me in for one of his crushing hugs, and I drop my hand from his face to rest on his shoulder.

"I…am proud of you," he says into my hair.

I don't reply, because I have no idea what to say. So I wrap both of my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I dare.

* * *

_Reviews appreciated. :)_


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN: **Thank you very much to my reviewers: **Smithback**,** Guest**,** Vera Rozalsky**,** lakelady8425**,** Annaface**,** Tom Riddle Minor**, and **Syd-of-the-Funny-Hat**.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

**10 December 2005, morning**

A dream. I don't often have them, but this one is very clear: Neville and I are walking through the countryside in summer, no particular destination in mind. He talks about Hogwarts, about Quidditch and chess, and he looks at me with this smile that breaks my heart. It feels all too strange, although his presence is reassuring as it always is. His arm is in mine, and the sun is warm on our backs.

I stop because I see a sheep ahead. I point and we both watch it for a moment.

"It's so beautiful here," I say.

Neville doesn't reply; he only tugs my arm to turn me toward him. And there, in the grass and dirt, he bends down to one knee and pulls out a ring from his pocket.

"Marry me, Hermione," he says simply.

I'm too surprised and shocked to answer. I stare at the ring until it blinds my eyes and finally I look into his face, but it's not Neville anymore. It's Ron, and he is looking at me with that same smile, and I am rooted to the spot and I can't speak because I've gone mute. I open my mouth to scream, but I can't make any noise.

In the distance, the sheep runs off.

* * *

I awake, but it's painful. That desperate, awful feeling from the dream clings to my being without relent; for a moment I don't move and wait for it to pass, my mind reeling with images from the dream. It's always the worst ones that are the most vivid. And finally, after what feels an age, I gingerly sit up and get out of bed.

First thing this morning I know: I have no patience. I grab my wand and conjure some coffee. Another wave and some cream and sugar are in my cup. I take it to my table and drink it quickly, not caring it's scalding my tongue. It's not until I finish the entire cup do I feel human again.

I look at the mirror on the wall next to me, but I look away quickly. My reflection is not a comfort, especially first thing in the morning.

I bathe and dress, barely taking any time to tame my ridiculous hair. I don't know what's in store for me today. I haven't seen Neville or Harry since that day we ate dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. I make another cup of coffee, face burning with the memory, even still. I have tried to come to terms with the meeting, but I can't. Something is holding me back; something doesn't feel quite _right_.

Harry was a lot like I remembered him being. He's always been the more reserved one, but he opens his mouth when he feels he has to. But we're not scheming and plotting anymore, no - we were simply catching up, albeit awkwardly. I don't believe Harry knew what to say to me, not exactly. Once again I'm reminded that I caused this. Out of fear, yes, but now I'm starting to wonder if it was actually a foolish move.

Especially since that night - Neville and I walked home, and I know now how badly I wanted to touch him. But there is something separating us, I fear, something greater than I understand. Usually I am fairly straightforward with these things; all it takes is a little bit of nerve and then your intentions are clear. But with Neville…I just can't. It's a strange voice in the back of my head, saying _Don't_. And another part of me is afraid, too, that he would reject me. And now I feel like a teenager, really, because all these feelings sound like adolescent angst, even in my own head.

I stare into my cup, realizing I haven't taken more than a couple sips from it. The liquid is cooling fast. I wave my wand and it heats up again, and will stay warm until I finish it. I once again marvel at the ease and grace of magic. And then, a sort of twisted thought crosses my mind: _Why can't magic fix _me_?_

I stand and go to the window in the living room. It is snowing again, the sky an odd gray color. I sigh a little. I figured that seeing Harry would ease some of the tension inside of me, but it has only gotten worse.

I don't know what I truly want. I don't know how to feel. My thoughts are so muddled and sluggish; trying to work through this is like trudging through quicksand. And to add to the confusion, Neville has awakened a part of me I thought long dead. Even now where I stand I can almost feel his presence, can almost imagine the warmth of his hand on my shoulder. And yet…

He's not here. I put a hand on the window, feeling the cold glass soak up the heat.

"He's not here," I say aloud. Too loud. I lower my hand and sit on the couch, but all I can do is stare into the space Neville usually occupies. My chest tightens and I know there's a name for this emotion that threatens to surface. That has surfaced so many times since I saw him outside the restaurant.

Too restless. I stand and go to the window again, unsure what to do and then of course, unsure of why I don't know what to do. I feel like I have lost touch with myself. I used to be so sure, so confident that I had made the right choice. I used to be so comfortable, before.

But that's not right. I shake my head to retract those thoughts, because I wasn't so sure, was I? If I recall correctly, I was in fact questioning how much longer I could go on like I was, alone and in hiding, that same day Neville found me. And I have never been truthfully comfortable either, not really. I have always been paranoid the shadow behind me was an escaped Death Eater, that any creak in the flat was someone who had found me out.

Not good, these thoughts. I focus my eyes on the street below, watching Ordinary People walk about, wondering what it is like to have such normal, uneventful lives. Wondering what it must be like to have your worst nightmare be just that: a nightmare.

And then, for no reason at all, Neville's face enters my mind once again. Even when I close my eyes, he's there, stained on the back of my eyelids like some kind of tattoo. I touch the glass again, hoping the real physical sensation will block out these abstract ones surfacing as they often do when my thoughts trail in his direction.

I wish I could get in touch with him. Just to ask him how he is. This is one of those times I curse the barriers between the Muggle world and the Wizarding; it's not as simple as sending an SMS.

My eyes suddenly focus from the view outside to my face reflecting off the glass - it isn't something I want to see. I look strained, tired, and completely not myself. I wonder if this is what Neville sees when he looks at me, or if I'm being particularly harsh on myself. The part of me that wants to know everything is inclined to find out, the rest of me bristles at the thought. What if it _is_ what he sees? What if this is what Harry saw?

I turn away from the window in disgust. I go into my room, grab the small bag of Wizarding money from my beaded bag, throw my coat on, and decide to do exactly what I shouldn't.

* * *

**10 December 2005, mid-morning**

My first thought when I Apparate is that I should have dressed warmer.

My second thought is that it smells like winter, here. I open my eyes and am momentarily blinded by the sheer _whiteness_ of it all. I am a little shell-shocked, I think, because my heart is hammering in my chest and I cannot believe I have just Apparated into Hogsmeade. For a moment, I don't move, and I'm reminded rather forcibly of my inability to move once I had arrived at the Ministry. But I am stronger, now.

I take a step down the hill that leads into the village. I have Apparated a small distance away mostly so I could gather whatever thoughts I needed to. I have a clear idea in my head of what I will do, but all of my senses are on fire from the abrupt change in scenery and also the onslaught of memories associated with this place.

But I am not here to mourn.

I take the familiar path into the village and once again have the strange realization that this place is much smaller than I remember. There are only a few people about, and none of them give me a second glance. I arrive at the Owlery and walk inside, and purchase a bird and some parchment on which I write '_Three Broomsticks, as soon as convenient. -HG'_, address it to Neville, and send it off to Hogwarts, hoping it won't be a terribly long time before he comes. If he comes. He could be not there at all and I've just thoroughly wasted my time.

I exit the shop and take a good look at my surroundings. The village is as pretty as a postcard, and windy, too. I take a deep breath. My heart rate isn't quite normal, but I can honestly say that I feel okay. I walk into the Three Broomsticks, hoping a Butterbeer might calm my nerves.

Upon opening the door, I'm greeted by the warm rush of air from a merrily crackling fireplace. It's virtually empty; there's only a couple customers and neither of them look at me as I enter.

I sit at a table partially secluded but not completely out of sight so I can watch for Neville.

"What can I get for you, dear?"

I jump, visibly I fear, and realize I'm looking at Madam Rosmerta. I feel my face heat and I'm afraid she'll recognize me and I know I'm doing nothing to help my case.

"Oh - um, a Butterbeer, please."

She gives me a slightly amused expression but nods and walks away. I begin to tap my foot impatiently. Wondering if this was a bad idea. Worrying I'm wasting my time. Curious how Neville will react. And annoyingly hopeful he comes immediately.

A soft _clink_ and a glass of Butterbeer is before me. I nod my thanks and pay up, fiddling a little with the coins because I almost forgot which is which. I see a spark of recognition in Madam Rosmerta's eyes but it is gone as soon as it comes. She shuffles away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I'm worrying too much. I'm painfully aware of each breath I take and try to distract myself with a hearty swig of my Butterbeer, but not even the warmth from the beverage can calm my nerves. I sit back in my chair a little, getting a better look at my surroundings, when someone catches my eye.

A man at the bar is reading what looks suspiciously like _The Quibbler_. He's a little too far away for me to be sure about this, but I feel my heart skip a beat at the sight. I hear him chuckle slightly at something and watch him shake his head. He puts the magazine down and waves to Madam Rosmerta.

"I'm off, love."

"Aye, I'll see you tomorrow," she replies, and returns to wiping the other end of the bar down.

He leaves, and my eyes are glued to the now abandoned magazine. I can't stop myself and get up, take it, and return to my seat.

My suspicions were correct: it is indeed _The Quibbler_, just printed yesterday. The colorful cover bears the words '_Crumple-Horned Snorkacks - Legend No Longer_' with a picture of Luna Lovegood smiling serenely, holding an old fashioned camera. I feel my breath hitch in my throat and open to the main article. Another photograph of Luna sitting at a table with a cup of tea greets me, her camera resting close to her other hand. My eyes skim the pages, and there is a photograph of a small strange looking creature with a large horn protruding between its eyes; it is a brownish-green and has very short legs that remind me of a lizard's. It has very small wings and I remember Luna saying once that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack couldn't fly. Indeed, I can't imagine this creature being able to achieve flight with those. I laugh a little, mirroring the man who had the magazine before me - but probably for different reasons. I never believed in her, ever, and she has proven me completely wrong.

_Rita Skeeter, The Quibbler. Luna Lovegood, the famous wizarding naturalist, has made it one of her life's goals to uncover the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. As I sit with her at her own breakfast table to a nice cup of tea, I am reminded that this small, delicate girl has not only proven the majority of us wrong with her discovery, but she also has more than proven her worth in other ways ('The Fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' ring a bell?) Luna is very polite, ensuring I have enough sugar and cream before attending to her own tea. Her hand is always next to her camera, as if afraid something will swoop in and snatch it - and rightfully so. It was this camera that took the picture of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and of every other rare creature she has studied. _

_RS: You must have had a lot of trouble convincing your friends that this was a valuable project to pursue. _

_LG: Oh, not really. You see, I've always just done what I thought was right. I never understood people who are so concerned with what other people think. Do what you believe, and if you're wrong, then you're wrong. But the journey is never worthless._

_RS: But you weren't wrong._

_LG: I was a little wrong. [Breathy laugh] My father and I always believed the Crumple-Horned Snorkack lived in Sweden, but after digging deeper I was lead to southern France. [Pause] Learning French as a child paid off, didn't it?_

_RS: Apparently so. How did you feel when you finally found it?_

_LG: Well…it was the most amazing feeling. It is almost extinct, and [my father and I] don't know much about them yet but we believe they're aware of it. We think they went into hiding to try to repopulate. It's all quite a mystery right now but we're very excited for the future of the project._

_RS: So it's not over?_

_LG: [Laughs] Of course not. When dealing with rare creatures it's never over. I think that holds true to anything, really. Just because you've solved a problem doesn't mean you should shelf it and forget about it. I prefer to dig to the bottom of everything and walking away satisfied. _

I stop reading because I can't see anymore. My initial shock has turned into remorse, remorse too deep to shove away and forget about. I clear my throat and wipe my eyes. I can't cry here. After taking a sip of Butterbeer - cold by now - I sit up straight and close the magazine, turning it over so I don't have to see Luna's face.

I hear the door chime and see Neville walk in, brow furrowed in worry. His eyes land on me and he makes a beeline to my table. I stand slowly, hoping I don't look as emotional as I feel. Neville puts a hand on my arm, and looks me up and down before allowing his face to relax slightly.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Then - I mean, why are you here?"

Neville gestures at the bar, his hand drops. I am too aware of the sudden absence, so I sit in effort to draw my mind elsewhere.

"I wanted to see you."

Neville sits too, his eyes searching mine, as if he doesn't believe my answer. Madam Rosmerta walks up and he orders a Butterbeer as well, hardly taking his eyes off me the entire exchange. I try to see myself in his eyes, but I can't.

"Really, I just wanted to see you, Neville. I…" I trail off, unsure how to end my sentence. I take another sip of my drink, grimacing at it. Butterbeer is not good cold.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, a ghost of a smile on his face. He waves his wand and I feel the drink heat through the glass.

"About forty-five minutes or so."

"You just came…to see me?"

I stare at his face. He's the only person I've ever known that is an open book but impossible to read. And the answer, _Yes, I couldn't bear another moment without you_, sits on my tongue but refuses to come out.

So I nod, because it is all I can do.

Madam Rosmeta comes back to give Neville his Butterbeer. He thanks her and pays, but she doesn't walk away immediately.

"You're Hermione Granger."

I startle, feeling the blood drain from my face. I see Neville stiffen, but I don't look at his face. Not now.

"I…am," I say quietly.

"Everyone thought you were gone," she says. "And here you are, in plain sight."

I drop my head, unable to look at her, at Neville, at anything but my hands in my lap. This is what I was afraid of - people finding out who I am and remembering what I did. Remembering that I was a coward. This realization hits me hard, almost knocks the wind out of me. It was so easy to tell myself that I was afraid of Death Eaters and things that went bump in the night to convince myself why I couldn't go back.

And once I left, it was so much easier to stay, because going back meant facing everyone and everything I ran away from.

"I'm a coward," I whisper without meaning to.

I look up at Neville, who is watching me warily. He shakes his head slightly, but Madam Rosmerta clucks her tongue.

"Coward? You? No." I look at her, taking in for the first time her brown dress and curly hair. Her red lips and the sparkle in her eyes. She walks over to me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

"You helped save our entire society. Thank you."

I open my mouth, but once again I can't find the words.

"I'm sorry for your losses. I couldn't imagine."

Is this really happening? I look over at Neville, but he looks dazed, too.

"Welcome back." She squeezes my shoulder and walks off.

I look at Neville, unsure what to say, but he is smiling. A true smile that reaches his eyes, and without thinking I reach over and grab his hand.

Without skipping a beat, he turns it over so he is holding my hand, rubbing the top with his thumb lightly. I try to control my heart, but I can't, so I stare at the movement, trying to figure out how such a small one could impact me so much.

"Hermione," he says, and I look at him, but his gaze is only giving me butterflies.

"Yes?" I manage. I will myself not to look away. Not to give myself away.

"Welcome back."


End file.
